Turn On the Lights
by kgregs
Summary: Hannah McMahon has always played out her role behind the scenes as a road agent for WWE. But when her father taps her to lead The Shield on-screen she's suddenly thrust into the unforgiving spotlight and a web of complex relationships she never imagined she'd have. CM Punk/OC/Dean Ambrose. Seth Rollins, Brad Maddox, Roman Reigns, Stephanie McMahon, Triple H, Kaitlyn, AJ Lee & more.
1. The One Who Turned Off the Lights

_New fic time. Read. Review. Let me know what you think._

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but Hannah McMahon and my plot._

**Chapter One**

_Wednesday, January 9, 2013  
__WWE Headquarters  
__Stamford, Connecticut_

"Dad, I should have left for the airport 15 minutes ago; you do not know how upset I'll be if we don't seal this deal with El Generico. We've been pursuing him since November and he's finally agreed to come in to discuss a contract."

The look of complete indifference etched onto her father's face made it perfectly clear to Hannah that he was entirely unconcerned with her itinerary. Vince McMahon's business _always_ took precedence—even if her business _was_ his business.

"I needed to speak with you first, Hannah, because Creative needs to know your answer as soon as possible."

Hannah paused. Creative needed her answer to _what_? Furthermore, _why_ did Creative need her answer to anything? She didn't work with Creative; she wasn't involved with story lines or match bookings in any way, shape or form. She never had been, not even once in her six-year tenure with WWE, and quite honestly she didn't want to be involved with them. Her job was to sign talent, and that was the extent of it.

But something about the gleam in her father's eye told her that was about to change.

"My answer to _what?_"

Vince folded his hands atop his expansive desk and fixed her with his steely gaze. Hannah had gotten that look all her life, but it worried her now more than it had in a long time.

"Tell me," he started, "what are your feelings on The Shield?"

Hannah pursed her lips as she dropped down into a seat. She really didn't have time for this, but she damn well knew she didn't have a choice, either.

Speaking from her professional opinion there was a hell of a lot she could say about The Shield. She could say that Seth Rollins was one of the most dedicated, deserving and all-around talented workers she had come across since Daniel Bryan. She could say that Roman Reigns was a powerhouse who had more than lived up to his Anoa'i name. She could say that Dean Ambrose, while a master of psychology who boasted some of the best promo skills in the business, kind of frightened her and struck her as rather unstable.

But Hannah knew her father wasn't looking for her professional opinion. Right now, what he was looking for was her _creative_ opinion.

"I like The Shield. I like what they stand for. I think they're an on-screen representation of the work Paul is doing to overhaul the company's view of its talent, both how we book who we currently have and who we choose to hire in the future."

Silence followed her answer. Slowly but surely, a satisfied grin cracked across Vince's face. She must have said something he liked.

"You never let me down, Hannah," he professed, but Hannah did not have the patience—or the time—to allow him to continue to hedge the issue.

"Can you please get to the point?"

"Yes," he consented. "The point is I want you involved with The Shield. The point is I want _you_ revealed as their mastermind."

Hannah had to have misheard him. She _had_ to._  
_

"Excuse me?"

"You just proved it to me yourself," he went on, his smile only growing wider. "You're perfect for the job."

"_What?_" She truly couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth. Vince McMahon had come up with some ridiculous ideas in his day, but this was absolutely preposterous. "No, I'm _not_ perfect for the job. _My_ job is to go out and bring you back Superstars. I've never been on-screen—I don't even _want_ to be on TV. I'm a road agent. My place is behind the scenes. I'm not the talent; I find the talent for you."

"I know you do, and you're damn good at it. And that's exactly why I want you for this role."

All Hannah could do was stare at him with mouth agape. Oh, she could not wait to hear his reasoning behind _that_.

"You understand this business, Hannah. You understand it the best of my children. You know what it takes to make a Superstar, but more importantly, you know who's going to prolong WWE's success into the future. And you don't want mere entertainers, oh no; you want honest-to-goodness _wrestlers_. In-ring technicians. Promo artists. You want hard work and dedication to be rewarded, and beyond that, upheld. What you're fighting for in reality is the exact same thing The Shield is fighting for on TV: Victory and fairness for the dedicated worker."

Now he had Hannah's interest. If there was one thing Vince McMahon knew better than anyone it was how to appeal to his audience. In this case his audience was not his daughter, but a passionate talent agent who had spent her entire career fighting for the "little" guy. She hated signing models over accomplished women wrestlers, she loathed holding a skilled worker back just because he wasn't the biggest guy on the roster. Hannah believed talent and dedication should be upheld above all else; if she had it her way the Women's Championship never would have been retired and guys like Tyson Kidd would be getting a hell of a lot more screen time. By handing her this role, by naming her the power behind The Shield her father was not only acknowledging her opinion, but also giving her a literal stage to speak her mind on all that she found wrong with WWE.

It was an intriguing offer to say the least.

The gears were turning in her brain, and her father knew it. He also knew he'd have to strike while the iron was hot. "I have the performance contract right here," he said as he produced a familiar packet of papers. Hannah was used to being on the giving end of those, not the receiving. "You're well aware of the terms. I just need your signature, and you can be on your way."

She eyed the contract as he pushed it toward her, but made no move to pick up the accompanying pen. It was an intriguing offer, yes, but not one that didn't warrant further consideration.

"I'll think about it," she said, and without another word on the matter excused herself from his office.

* * *

_Hannah McMahon's Apartment  
__Stamford, Connecticut_

"Stephanie, when did Dad even talk to you about this?"

Hannah had spent her entire day mulling over her father's offer, weighing the pros and cons and going back and forth, but she had yet to give him an answer.

Her sister's opinion was needed before she could make a final decision.

"He _literally_ came up with it Monday night during the TLC match," Stephanie explained from the other end of the phone. "Remember when the lights went off in the arena, and when they came back on The Shield was in the ring? Well, it was like a light bulb went on above his head and he decided you should be their leader. He said to me, 'Hannah's the one who turned off the lights!'"

Hannah couldn't help but roll her eyes. That sounded like their dear old dad, alright. "And do _you_ think it's a good idea?"

There was a thoughtful pause, and then, "Yeah, I do. I mean, you're just as good as anyone we could have picked, and even better with the way Dad described it. Besides, it's about time you had an on-screen role. You're the only McMahon who hasn't."

Stephanie had a point there. In her 27 years, Hannah McMahon had somehow managed to completely avoid being made into an on-screen character. It just wasn't something that had ever interested her—she was far too invested in her career as a talent agent to bother with being on TV. But perhaps it would be fun to finally have a character. After all, unlike the rest of her family she was relatively unknown to the WWE Universe. The fans knew she existed, of course, but that was pretty much the extent of it. They didn't know _her_.

Then again, Hannah didn't want to be handed a role just because her last name was "McMahon." She had never done _anything_ like this before. Would she be able to act once the cameras went on? Would she be able to keep character on live television, in front of the entire world? Forget acting—would she be able to cut a convincing and believable promo as the leader of The Shield? Her very first on-screen gig and she would be expected to cut a promo standing alongside the likes of Dean Ambrose, one of the greatest and most formidable talkers she had ever encountered.

Well, shit.

She was considering all of this at once and quickly becoming overwhelmed, but Stephanie interrupted her thoughts before they could consume her whole.

"But, I understand if you don't want to take on this particular role."

There was more to that statement than Stephanie was letting on. Hannah could hear it lingering in her voice. "And why is that?"

"Well," she was hesitant to spit it out. "You know… considering who The Shield has been targeting… you'll more than likely have to work with Phil at some point."

Hannah paused. Somehow that hadn't even crossed her mind.

"You're the only person who knows anything even happened there," she quickly dismissed. Her voice was hushed, as if she was afraid someone might overhear her all alone in her apartment. "That's not a reason not to do it. Not unless I want everyone knowing my business."

"Hannah, let me tell you right now: Don't sign that contract if you aren't okay with everyone knowing your business."

Stephanie's words hit her like a truck. But she also knew just how true they were.

"Whatever," she surrendered with a sigh. "I still need to consider it. Maybe a hot shower will produce a decision."

"Alright," Stephanie agreed. "But don't _over_ think it, and _please_ don't wait until the last minute to decide. You know the script gets reworked enough as it is."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll let you know."

They said goodnight, and Hannah tossed her iPhone aside just in time to see Sheamus win via count out over Dolph Ziggler on that night's episode of WWE Main Event. It was about damn time the self-proclaimed "Show Off" was getting a real push; she only hoped Creative wouldn't completely waste his Money in the Bank contract. He deserved a legitimate world title run.

As soon as that thought crossed her mind, Hannah knew she had come to her decision.

She retrieved her phone and texted a quick message to Stephanie.

_Screw it. I'll do it._

* * *

_Intrigued? Please let me know by submitting a review. Thank you, lovelies._


	2. Encounters of the Uncomfortable Kind

_I wrote this in absolute record time for me. Anyway, sorry that this update is rather short, but there is some important/interesting stuff happening. I also wanted to post this now to let you all know that I probably won't be able to develop my plot much further until the Royal Rumble happens, so another update probably won't happen until after then, just fyi._

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed/favorited/followed the first chapter. Please do the same here!_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but Hannah and my plot. _

**Chapter Two**

_Saturday, January 12, 2013  
__WWE Raw Live Event  
__Laredo Energy Arena – Laredo, Texas_

It wasn't often that Hannah was present at house shows. In fact, it wasn't often that Hannah was present at any WWE shows at all. Mostly, the only time you could spot her at a WWE event would be in the case of a pay-per-view—and even then she wasn't always present. No, Hannah was far more likely to be found at a little independent wrestling show inside a cramped theater scouting a future World Champion than she was to be found at a WWE event.

But that was back when Hannah was a road agent, and she wasn't a road agent anymore; at least not primarily. Two days ago she had signed her name on the dotted line—she was talent now. So here she was, backstage at that night's Raw live event preparing herself for her new role.

"This is gonna be _bad—a__ss_. Seriously. I'm really excited about this."

Her enthusiastic companion was none other than Seth Rollins, one third of The Shield and one of WWE's brightest prospects for the future—but Hannah just called him Colby. They had first become acquainted back when he had been Ring of Honor's biggest star; Hannah had relentlessly pursued him for a contract, and through the process of signing him to WWE they had become close friends. It was a relief knowing there was someone she trusted working with her in this new on-screen endeavor; she was nervous enough as it was.

She muttered morosely under her breath. "Bad ass, yeah. Provided I can pull it off."

"Hannah, you don't have to worry about pulling this off. You're a McMahon. Being conniving and manipulative is in your blood."

That comment came from Daniel Bryan; Hannah met his smirk with an unimpressed glare. Daniel was another trusted member of her inner circle—she had been the one to push for his re-signing after he had been unfairly fired due to the infamous Nexus "tiegate" incident, as it had come to be known. They had been good friends ever since.

"You can't argue with him there," Colby chimed.

"No, you're right," she agreed. "My family's reputation definitely works in my favor here. But still, I've _never_ cut a promo before and I'm going to have to duel with the likes of CM Punk and Paul Heyman. They're going to make me look completely stupid by comparison, and I don't want to make The Shield look stupid."

The validity of her concern couldn't be denied. Going up against masters of the mike like Punk and Heyman was a tall order for a seasoned vet, let alone someone as inexperienced as Hannah. No wonder she was worried.

But Daniel had a solution. "Well, there's only one way to ensure you don't look stupid. Let's work on your promo skills."

Hannah's eyebrows arched. "Right now?"

"Yeah, why not? Cut a promo on me right now."

Her eyes darted toward Colby, but upon seeing the look of expectancy on his face she knew he wasn't going to bail her out.

"Come on," Daniel prodded. "I know you can do this. Here, I'll prompt you." He stepped forward and rubbed his palms together, getting into the mindset of his character; and the next thing Hannah knew she was being insulted.

"No!" he proclaimed as he pointed a firm finger in her face. "You're nothing but a _hypocrite_, Hannah McMahon! You're not fighting against injustice in the WWE! All you're doing is abusing the power of your family's name to get your 15 minutes of fame, and screwing over hard working, deserving wrestlers in the process! These goons wouldn't be listening to you if your name wasn't McMahon! You'd be _nothing_ without your name, and you're just throwing a temper tantrum because everyone knows who Vince, Linda, Shane and Stephanie are, and don't give a _crap_ who you are."

Hannah quirked a brow at Daniel—she thought he was being a tad bit harsh—but then she realized it was her turn. What in the world was she supposed to say? She was no expert in the art of promos, that was for sure, but one thing she had learned over the years was that often the best and most provoking promos drew their inspiration from real life. So she narrowed her eyes at Daniel and hit him with the cold, hard truth.

"The WWE Universe may not be as well acquainted with me as they are the rest of my family, but the people who _matter_ know who I am. _You_ certainly know who I am, Daniel Bryan. You wouldn't be standing here right now if it weren't for me. The powers that be threw you out on your ass, and _I _was the one who brought you back. If it weren't for my _name_ you wouldn't be one half of the WWE Tag Team Champions right now; you'd be grappling some nobody in a high school gym. You have _me_ to thank for your career, and the WWE Universe has _me_ to thank for keeping the WWE Title from around the waist of a mindless, robotic moron. So tell me again: How is it that I've been so unjust?"

A loud, slow clap unexpectedly broke out; Hannah jumped in surprise. From out of the shadows emerged none other than Dean Ambrose, clothed in black and his hair slicked back as per usual. His eyes were fixed on her.

"Good job, boss."

His demeanor was far too unsettling for Hannah to accept the compliment. There was something foreboding about the look in his eyes, something predatory about the way he regarded her. It sent a chill down her spine.

He turned his gaze to Colby and Daniel. "We have to get to Gorilla. Our match is up next."

"Game time," Colby said as he hopped down from his seat atop an electrical crate. "Catch you later, boss," he grinned, adopting the nickname. "I don't think you have anything to worry about."

"For real, Hannah," Daniel agreed. "That was pretty damn good."

Colby and Daniel set off down the hall, but Ambrose lingered behind. Hannah watched him, not making a move and not saying a word. The corner of his mouth curled up in a smirk, and with that he turned and followed after Colby and Daniel.

Hannah expelled the breath trapped in her throat. Dean Ambrose was one eerie character.

* * *

After the intermission Hannah had decided to watch the rest of the show from backstage; it wasn't like she had anything better to do. It was almost over now—Antonio Cesaro and The Miz were in the middle of an excellent street match for the United States Championship, and after that only the main event remained: A tag team match pitting John Cena and Ryback against Dolph Ziggler and CM Punk.

Knowing that, Hannah should have realized she would run into the WWE Champion.

"Hannah."

She tensed when she heard him say her name. Hannah hadn't spoken to Phil Brooks in over a year and a half; not since the summer of 2011, not since his contract had expired and he had been on the verge of leaving WWE for good. Their paths had crossed every now and again since then, of course. It was unavoidable. But Hannah had absolutely nothing to say to him. Nothing, at least, outside of four-letter words.

But even that would be unavoidable now.

He came to a stop beside her. She folded her arms in front of her chest, putting up her defenses. She refused to look at him. "Hey," she brusquely returned. She wasn't willing to say more than that.

From her peripheral vision she saw him mimic her stance, joining her in looking out at the ring from behind the cover of the heavy black Gorilla curtain. She prayed the match was near its finish.

"I didn't know you were here tonight," he said. When she didn't respond he added, "I heard about The Shield."

Still, Hannah didn't utter a word.

Phil let out a short, exasperated laugh. He was losing patience. "So you still refuse to talk to me, even in person. That should make working together a walk in the park."

"I'll have no problem working with you when I need to," she briskly retorted. "I'm perfectly capable of being a civil, professional adult."

She hoped he would leave it at that; she wished the stupid match would end already. But when she heard his next question, barely audible above the sounds of the arena, she felt an all too familiar pang in her heart—a stabbing anguish she thought she had conquered with time.

"How many times do I have to tell you I'm sorry? It was never my intention to hurt you, Hannah."

She clenched her teeth, but her anger kept her from holding her tongue. "It's hardly ever anyone's _intention_ to hurt someone, Phil. But that doesn't make it hurt any less."

The ring bell sounded throughout the arena, signaling the end of the match. Cesaro was victorious. Hannah didn't want to stick around to see the main event.

"Break a leg," she muttered, and left him standing alone at the curtain.


	3. Dream a Little Dream

_So I said I wasn't going to update until after the Royal Rumble... but I have this all written up and I really like it... too much to sit on it for another week. So whatever happens come Sunday, I'll just make it work._

_Almost all of you have been saying you want to know what happened between Punk and Hannah in the past. Well, you get your answer here; in part ;)_

_Enjoy and please review!_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but Hannah and my plot._

**Chapter Three**

_Wednesday, January 16, 2013  
Hannah McMahon's Apartment  
Stamford, Connecticut_

_Hannah wished he could stay. She wished they could laze around on the couch all day watching all the classic horror movies he insisted she needed to see, cuddling under a blanket and eating popcorn. She wished he could spend another night kissing her lips, her neck; every single inch of her skin. She wished she could spend another night dragging her fingers through his hair and down his back as he took her breath away. She wished she could fall asleep in his arms again._

_Hannah did not want Phil to leave._

_They walked to her front door, deliberately taking their time. Hannah wasn't going to be the one to open it. She was still reeling from everything that had happened the night before._

_He looked down at her, that smirk of his playing on his lips. She loved that smirk "Taking the walk of shame from a McMahon residence. I'm moving up in the world."_

_Hannah's somber expression turned to one of sheer displeasure. Phil's smirk grew into a grin._

_"I'm kidding."_

_He took her chin between his fingers and leaned down to place a soft, tender kiss on her lips. She drew herself into him, not wanting it to end. But it had to._

_His olive eyes gazed down into her blue ones. "I better see you next week."_

_"You will," she smiled._

_"Good."_

_He gave her one last kiss, and with a wink he was gone._

Hannah awoke with a start. For once she wished she hadn't remembered her dream.

She turned to look at the clock on her nightstand. The bright green digital numbers read 7:42 a.m.—three minutes before the alarm was set to go off. She groaned in aggravation; waking up right before the alarm was the absolute worst.

She threw the comforter aside and forced herself out of her cozy queen-sized bed and began to ready herself for another day at WWE headquarters. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, picked out her outfit, ate breakfast—and the entire time she couldn't stop thinking about that stupid dream.

It wasn't a scene her subconscious had invented. It had actually happened, in July of 2011, and her mind had recreated it right down to the last detail, right down to every little emotion she had felt. It was as if she had been living it all over again.

But there had been one important difference. On that summer morning over a year and six months ago Hannah had been walking on a cloud. She had found herself newly smitten with the last man she ever would have expected, and hoping like a lovesick schoolgirl he was feeling the same things about her. For the first time in a long time she had had butterflies teeming in her stomach. For the first time in a long time she had been thinking about _being_ with someone without reservation.

But in the dream that schoolgirl hope had been missing. In the dream the very second Phil had left Hannah had already known he would kill every little butterfly with a thousand tiny daggers.

In the dream she had already known he would stomp on her heart.

* * *

_WWE Headquarters  
Stamford, Conn._

"So have you decided when I'm going to reveal myself or what?"

Stephanie pursed her lips at Hannah's question, but truthfully she had a perfectly good reason for asking. It had been a week since she had agreed to be named the power behind The Shield and still she knew absolutely nothing about what she would actually be doing—or when she would be doing it. It had been quite agitating when she had shown up at Raw's 20th anniversary show in Houston two days ago only to find she wasn't needed yet. Apparently Creative still wasn't sure how to handle her debut.

But it seemed her sister finally had an answer; or half of one, at least.

"Yes. You'll reveal yourself at the Royal Rumble, but the details haven't been finalized. We still haven't decided how to involve The Shield in the WWE Title match."

Hannah shook her head as she glanced off into the distance. Regardless of what The Shield would or wouldn't be doing, she was none too pleased with the planned outcome of the WWE Title match. "I still can't believe you're putting the title on The Rock just to make some money. He's barely _part-time_. I don't think he deserves to be champion."

Stephanie returned her disapproval with a hardened stare. "Jeez, Hannah, you really are the leader of The Shield."

This time it was Hannah whose lips pursed in annoyance.

"But there's something else I wanted to discuss with you," Stephanie went on. She folded her hands atop her desk, just like their father had a week ago. The similarity frightened Hannah. "Paul has proposed an added layer of intrigue for your involvement."

Hannah had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. Not because she didn't like Paul—she actually got along quite well with her brother-in-law—but because she already had a feeling he was only proposing this "added layer of intrigue" as a way to mess with her. Paul Levesque made a hobby of getting under Hannah's skin—and and most of the time she couldn't even do a damn thing about it because, as Vice President of Talent Relations, he was her boss. She had lost count of how many times he had sent her on scouting trips with John Laurinaitis just because he knew she couldn't stand the robotic oaf; and for some reason, she had a hunch he was pulling the same shit with this "proposal."

"Oh yeah? And what is his genius idea?"

Stephanie cocked an unappreciative eyebrow before answering. "Well, as you've probably noticed, for a while now we've been hinting at a connection between The Shield and Brad Maddox. And now that you've signed on to lead The Shield Paul has suggested that you and Maddox… have a romantic relationship."

"_Excuse me?_" Hannah blurted—but Stephanie hadn't even gotten to the best part.

"He's suggested that you two reveal you're engaged, actually."

Hannah didn't know what was worse, her father telling her he wanted her to lead The Shield or her sister telling her this. There was absolutely no doubt in her mind that Paul had only done this to fuck with her—he was well aware that she _could not_ _stand_ Brad Maddox. He was talented, sure, and he had a boatload of charisma; but the actual person was just as egotistical and narcissistic as the character. He was a total sleaze. Every conversation he had ever had with her had been laced with innuendoes and implications. The way he would look at her, not bothering to hide where his eyes wandered, was enough to make her want to punch him in his pretty boy face every time they crossed paths. He was full of himself, to say the least.

But for whatever reason Paul was riding high on the kid—perhaps Maddox had sold his soul to the devil—and now he was seizing the opportunity to agitate Hannah on a grander scale than he had ever achieved before.

"Stephanie, you can't possibly agree with this," she protested. "You _know_ Paul only suggested this to piss me off."

"He probably did," Stephanie consented. "But I do think it's a good idea."

Hannah blatantly rolled her eyes that time, but Stephanie continued.

"Maddox _is_ involved with The Shield; _you're_ involved with The Shield. Eventually, Maddox is going to be granted a contract on-screen. If you two are 'engaged' it gives you reason to hold The Shield over dad's head until he signs Maddox. You'll demand that he be given a contract and threaten that The Shield's attacks will continue until he is."

It was a reasonable argument; but Hannah didn't want to listen to reason. "We don't need to be 'engaged' for me to do that!" she retorted, copying Stephanie's air quotes, albeit a bit more angrily.

But Stephanie shut her down. "It's a juicy twist," was her simple response. It only angered Hannah further.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me."

"I'm not," she firmly stated. "You, dear sister, are the future Mrs. Brad Maddox. _I'm_ in charge of Creative, and that's what I want. Deal with it."

Hannah's jaw tensed as she and her sister stared each other down with equally icy blue eyes. It was something they had been doing all their lives. But where Stephanie was usually the one to get her way, Hannah was usually the one to get the last word.

"Oh no; if I have to do this, _he's_ the future Mr. Hannah McMahon."

* * *

_Monday, January 21, 2013  
WWE Monday Night Raw  
HP Pavilion – San Jose, California_

Tonight the plot would finally be set in motion. Tonight Paul Heyman would have a "change of heart" and offer his services to ex-rogue-referee-turned-Superstar-wannabe Brad Maddox. Tonight The Shield would attack The Rock in the middle of the ring as he addressed CM Punk. Tonight the first seeds would be sewn to reveal the connection between Hannah McMahon, The Shield and Maddox, and their ultimate alliance with Heyman and Punk.

Hannah had to admit: it was all very exciting.

But her excitement diminished considerably when she ran into her new "fiancé" the second she arrived at the arena.

"Well, well, well. If it isn't my blushing bride-to-be."

Brad Maddox greeted her with his usual slimy smirk. She would never admit to it, but Hannah truly thought it was a shame he was such a prick. He was quite attractive, and he always dressed well and smelled even better. She absolutely hated the fact that he wore Old Spice. She loved Old Spice.

"There better be a big ass rock for me in this deal," she muttered. "I don't know why else I would have said yes to _you_."

Unfortunately, the snide comment only encouraged him. "Oh there's something big, alright."

Hannah nearly dry heaved. "You're disgusting," she reproached and continued on her way—but Brad Maddox was incorrigible. He just followed after her.

"You know, considering we're probably going to be making out on live television I think we should get to know each other a little better."

"Oh really? Do you bother getting to know the rats you sleep with every night?"

"I do _not_ sleep with rats."

Hannah shot him a dubious look.

"Fine, don't believe me," he returned. "But we're at least going to need to be on the same page if—"

"Amy!" Hannah suddenly proclaimed. She stopped dead in her tracks and Brad nearly collided into her. She stared like a deer caught in headlights at the redhead before her. Amy Dumas, better known to the WWE Universe as Lita. Hannah hadn't expected to see her here. She wasn't sure what to do.

"Hannah," Amy smiled, but it looked just as Hannah felt: uncomfortable. "How are you? It's been awhile."

Hannah was trying desperately to swallow the lump in her throat. "I'm fine. Just busy working, as always."

"Oh yeah, I heard about The Shield." Amy purposefully omitted who exactlyshe had heard it from. Hannah already knew exactly who. "Congratulations."

"Thanks. I'm excited about it."

An awkward lull suddenly threatened them; but Hannah and Amy both refused to let it settle in.

"Well, Brad and I—" Hannah started.

"Yeah, I'll let you get going." Amy gave one final stiff smile. "See you later."

Hannah returned the forced gesture and, thankfully, Amy went on her way.

Brad opened his big mouth as soon as she was out of earshot. "Okay, what was _that_ about? Do you and Lita have some sort of scandalous history or something? Because that was _awkward_."

That was absolutely none of his business, but Hannah couldn't tell him that. Saying so would only clue him in to things she didn't want him—or anyone—to know. "I just didn't expect to see her here," she bluffed.

"Why?" he shot, brows scrunched up in confusion. "She goes everywhere with Punk on that bus."

"Do you want me to tolerate you or not?"

He raised his hands in surrender. "Fine. You know what they say: happy wife, happy life."

"Oh my God," she breathed. "It better not get to the point where I'm your wife."

* * *

"This is gonna be good," Paul "Triple H" Levesque said as he and Hannah watched from backstage. "Everyone will think Heyman turned out the lights. Little do they know…"

"Proud of yourself, are you?" Hannah asked.

He nodded. "Very."

Hannah couldn't help her grin—it _was_ pretty good. It was the top of the final hour of the show and Paul Heyman had come out to the ring with the intention of putting into layman's terms CM Punk's promo from earlier in the night, in which he had dismantled The Rock and WWE Universe both. Hannah thought it had been a brilliant promo. Punk had proclaimed that he had seen into The Rock's soul, that The Rock had chosen a path of "hypocritical humility" while he himself walked one of "honest arrogance." He had stated that The Rock didn't deserve to be champion, and that the WWE Universe didn't matter. The only thing that did matter was the WWE Championship, which would remain around the waist of the "Best in the World."

Regardless of how she felt about him, Hannah would always love listening to Punk's promos.

But, back to the present, just as Heyman had deemed it to be a "foregone conclusion" that Punk would leave the Royal Rumble as WWE Champion, The Rock had interrupted and kicked him out of the ring. Heyman had retreated, insulted and threatened, and now—with Punk watching on from a skybox high above the ring—Rocky was delivering a "pipe bomb" of his own.

Soon, though, The Shield would quiet him.

"So where's your fiancé?"

Hannah glared up at Paul's smirk. She had already chewed him out for saddling her up with Maddox, and of course he had been all too pleased with himself. "Don't know, don't care. He's probably staring at himself in a mirror somewhere."

"Oh come on," Paul laughed. "He's not that bad once you get to know him. Give him a chance. I think you might actually like him."

That set off a red flag; Hannah's eyes widened in horror. "No, oh no," she said as she shook her head. "_Please_ tell me you're not trying to set me up again!"

It wouldn't be the first time Paul had attempted to play matchmaker. He and Hannah's father both had tried like hell to set her up with Sheamus last spring, during his first run as World Heavyweight Champion. The Irishman was nice enough, but he just wasn't her type—they were much better off as friends. Every now and again her dad would drop a hint that he still liked the idea of them getting together, but thankfully he had, for the most part, given up.

"I'm not _trying_ to set you up," he said. "But I mean, I've known you for more than a decade of your life, and in that entire time you've had what, two boyfriends?"

"Three!" she corrected.

He gave her an unimpressed look. "Have you bought a cat yet?"

That earned him a punch on the arm. It didn't faze him one bit.

"Look," she started with a huff, "when I was in high school, and even when I was in college, guys only asked me out because they wanted tickets, or because they wanted to meet their favorite wrestler. Now I'm too busy to date anyone who doesn't live this lifestyle too—and I do _not_ want to date a wrestler." No, Hannah thought. She would never open her heart to a wrestler ever again.

"So are you just gonna stay single your whole life then? Become a cat lady?"

She glared at him again. "I like _dogs_, thank you very much. And jeez, I'm 27 years old. My ovaries have a bit longer before they shrivel up."

Paul just chuckled to himself.

The 15,000 fans packed into the HP Pavilion let out a roar. The Rock's promo was coming to its climax.

"CM Punk, just like Martin Luther King had a dream, The Rock has a dream to go to the mountain top, and go to the Promised Land one more time and become WWE Champion! Punk, if you looked into The Rock's soul, like you said you did; if you saw into my soul like you said you did then you _know_ deep down in your soul that I _promise_ to _beat_ you at the Royal Rumble for the WWE Title! And Punk, when that's done this Sunday—and I promise that's gonna happen—when that's done, every man, woman and child, from Bangkok to Brazil, from Moscow to Miami, all the way back right here to San Jose! Sunday night, when The Rock is WWE Champion, they'll be saying 'Free at last, free at last, thank God almighty, we are free at last!"

The Rock launched into his signature catchphrase and the fans, as they always did, completely ate it up. Paul snickered. "I know it's Martin Luther King Day, but that was a little heavy-handed, even for Dwayne."

All of a sudden the lights went out—the arena turned pitch-black. The fans, already anticipating what was coming, were alive in the stands. The darkness only lasted a few seconds, but when the lights came back up back up Dean Ambrose, Seth Rollins and Roman Reigns had The Rock cornered in the ring.

They put the boots to him, and for a few seconds the Brahma Bull held his own—but Ambrose felled him with a well-placed blow to the back of the head. They viciously pummeled his prone form, stomping him again and again; and once they were sure he was good and defenseless they lifted him up into their signature triple powerbomb. With a primal scream of victory from Reigns The Rock was slammed down to the mat, defeated.

They stood triumphant over the People's Champion. Rollins screamed out "Believe in The Shield!" and, as quick as they had come, they fled the ring.

With his opponent incapacitated Punk stood from the skybox, mic in hand, primed to deliver his final verbal blow. "Bad news, Rock. On top of that mountain, there's only room for _one man_. And free at last? You gotta pay a price for your freedom.

"It's cute you have a dream, though. But the thing about dreams is eventually you have to wake up from them. When you wake up from yours you'll realize the truth: That the Great One just wasn't great enough to beat the Best in the World."

Punk held up his title belt as The Rock continued to lie near motionless in the ring, and while there were obvious boos ringing throughout the arena there were also quite a few cheers. Even as a heel the WWE Universe adored CM Punk.

"Was that good enough for you, boss?"

Hannah turned at the sound of Colby's voice and found him donning a satisfied smirk as he, Reigns and Ambrose returned behind the cover of the heavy black Gorilla curtain. Once again, Ambrose's eyes seemed fixed on her. But she did her best to ignore it.

"Uh, yeah," she complimented. She looked to the monitor and watched as Rock struggled to get to his feet—and then she noticed he was spitting up blood. "Is he okay?"

"I'm sure he's fine," Reigns answered in his deep voice. The Rock was, in all actuality, his cousin. "I accidentally clocked him pretty good in the mouth. Guess I got a little excited. I'll probably pay for it later."

"Hell yeah, you will," Paul commented; but Hannah was all smiles.

"Well, good job boys. I don't know about you, but I can't wait for Sunday."


	4. Figured Out

_Surprise! Seriously, this story is practically writing itself. Anyway, I hope you all like this chapter as much as I do :0)_

_I absolutely love all the reviews you all have been leaving, and please do the same here! They make me happeh :)_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but Hannah and the plot._

**Chapter Four**

_Jan. 25, 2013  
Sheraton Phoenix Downtown Hotel  
Phoenix, Ariz._

As most people in the business would attest, any and every opportunity for personal time was always taken and relished completely. Hannah McMahon was no exception.

She felt like she had been going a mile a minute since Monday—and she wasn't even on TV yet. From Raw in San Jose she had traveled two hours north to Sacramento for the SmackDown taping Tuesday night, where Punk had threatened The Shield to keep their noses out of his match on Sunday, lest Vince strip him of the WWE Title. From there she had caught a red eye flight to Connecticut, where she had spent three very busy days at WWE headquarters. And now here she was back out on the West Coast, enjoying a rare night of freedom before tomorrow's first-ever Royal Rumble Fan Fest, and the Rumble itself on Sunday.

But just because she had down time didn't mean Hannah wasn't working.

She was sitting by herself in the hotel bar and restaurant, snacking on mozzarella sticks and sipping on a rather strong mojito, watching YouTube videos of independent women's wrestling matches on her iPad. Just a few days ago WWE had put out an official casting call for models. Hannah wasn't sure who had authorized it—if she found out it was Paul she would rip him a new one—but she was not happy about it. Unless management planned on adding a crop of valets to the roster, WWE didn't need any more models. They needed real women wrestlers, and there were plenty gorgeous ones already out there to choose from if they would just open their ignorant eyes and look. To that end, Hannah had decided to compile some highlights of the most talented, eye-pleasing girls she knew and send them off to the powers that be.

Even as the leader of The Shield, Hannah McMahon would always and forever be a talent scout.

She had just finished watching Allysin Kay vs. Mia Yim in a Women's Death Match—"holy shit" and "damn" had been uttered in abundance—when she felt it: Someone was watching her.

It was a wholly distinct feeling, a completely eerie feeling. It was a Friday night and the restaurant was packed, but it suddenly felt as if she was alone in the room, left at the mercy of her voyeur. Cautiously she raised her eyes from her tablet, and it didn't take long for her to spot the culprit. Dean Ambrose was sitting at the bar, and he was staring right at her.

Immediately she looked back down. Her pulse was racing. One thing was for certain: Dean Ambrose frightened Hannah.

It wasn't just the slightly unbalanced quality of his behavior, or the fact that he seemed to enjoy studying her. Dean Ambrose had frightened Hannah from the very first time she had ever watched him wrestle. He was cut from the same cloth as hardcore legends the likes of Terry Funk and Mick Foley, pushing his body to its absolute brink—and then pushing it even further. His independent highlight reel was chock full of matches that ended with him covered in his own blood; and the thing of it was he seemed to enjoy it that way. Either he couldn't feel pain, or pain was the only thing he could feel. It was hard to say which was worse.

But it wasn't just his matches that frightened her, either. His promos, as arresting as they were, were also, quite frankly, completely deranged. Prior to his IPW World Title defense against Drake Younger in 2009—a "Fans Bring the Weapons" match—he had actually said, verbatim, "Believe me when I tell you, I never lie. Believe me when I tell you I would just as soon slice open every one of the fans here tonight, as I'm going to Drake Younger."

Hannah believed him.

On the surface, Dean Ambrose frightened Hannah because he had proven to be a little bit crazy. But deep down, locked away in the part of her brain along with everything else she didn't want to think about, Hannah was frightened of the things Dean Ambrose might be capable of.

He was still watching her. She could easily just get up and leave; her bill was already paid. But if, for whatever reason, he wanted to know that he scared her, she certainly wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. So she turned her attention back to searching for videos—and that was when he joined her.

He slid down onto the bench on the opposite side of the booth. She had headphones in her ears, but as nothing was playing she heard him just fine.

"Sorry to stare; I wasn't sure if it was you or not. I almost didn't recognize you."

That was the last thing Hannah would have expected him to open with, but she could see why he had. Her long chocolate-colored hair, which usually fell in perfect loose waves over her shoulders, was pulled up in a messy bun atop her head. Her blue eyes were hidden behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses, whereas she normally wore contacts. She was even dressed down in a hoodie and a pair of sweats. None of the guys were used to seeing her like this.

But even if he had presented a valid reason for staring she didn't let her guard down. "How long have you been here?"

"Just got here," he answered. "I sat at the bar, ordered a beer, and then I saw you. I haven't even taken a sip yet."

Her eyes shot to his glass. It was full to the brim, foam and all. Maybe she was being completely paranoid about his intentions, after all.

"What're you watching?" he asked with a glance at her iPad. It was apparent that he didn't plan on leaving any time soon, so she might as well humor him. It would be a lot better than offending him.

"Oh, I've been compiling a bunch of match videos of certain wrestlers to send to Paul," she explained as she pulled the headphones from her ears. "Right now I'm working on Allysin Kay. Do you know her?"

He shook his head. "I know _of_ her. I know other people that know her."

"That's how it goes," Hannah replied. "Everyone in this business is connected somehow."

Silence fell between them. He was doing it again, just watching her, dissecting her with his gaze. She took a rather large drink of her cocktail.

"You can't stop working, can you?"

The question surprised her. In fact, it wasn't so much a question as it was a hard statement, like he already knew the answer; like he understood.

And, if Hannah was being honest with herself—he was right.

"I guess I can't," she admitted rather sheepishly. "Even when I'm not on the clock, finding the next big Superstar is all I think about. I'm pretty single-minded in my pursuit. It's kind of pathetic, actually."

She frowned into her lap—it _was_ pathetic. Hannah's work consumed her, mind, body and soul. Her job was literally her life, and for years now she hadn't allowed room for anything—or anyone—else. It made her feel awfully lonely and even sorry for herself sometimes, especially when she compared herself to her siblings, with their loving spouses and beautiful children. Meanwhile all she had was her job.

But that was another one of those things she didn't like to think about.

"It's not pathetic. It's just what you love to do."

Hannah looked back up at him, and she was taken aback by what she saw. His penetrating gaze had softened. She didn't detect any cold calculation or any nefarious intentions in his blue eyes any longer. It had all been replaced with something else entirely: Empathy.

"I'm the exact same way," he went on. "Wrestling made life tolerable for me. So it's become my entire life."

She gave a halfhearted smile. "I just don't know anything else. Anything outside of this seems to elude me," she said, more to herself than him; and it was then she realized, to her horror, that this was something she had never talked to _anyone_ about. "Well, I should get some sleep," she started, giving herself an excuse to leave. "Have to get up bright and early for the Fan Fest tomorrow."

Dean smirked—it was obvious he knew he had gotten to her. "Goodnight, boss."

She forced a smile, packed up her things and left. Somehow, in a matter of minutes, Dean Ambrose had gotten into her head—and she didn't like it.

* * *

_Jan. 26, 2013  
Royal Rumble Fan Fest  
U.S. Airways Center – Phoenix, Ariz._

The inaugural Royal Rumble Fan Fest was in full swing. The U.S. Airways Center was bustling with thousands of fans eager to meet their favorite Superstars and Divas and soak up every little experience they could. There were live matches, musical performances, panel discussions and more—and at this point in the day Hannah was running on coffee, adrenaline and the mantra, "I love my job."

She had risen with the sun, and after a night of restless sleep. Her encounter with Dean Ambrose had dominated her thoughts throughout the night and even into the day—how easily he had been able to read her, like an open book. Hannah knew she wasn't a particularly enigmatic person; she wore her emotions on her sleeve more often than not. But she _was_ a very private person, and the way in which he had been able to key into something so specific that she had kept so guarded for so long bothered her.

What had made her say those things to him? She tried to pawn it off on the potent rum in that mojito and just stop thinking about it. But deep down she knew there was another reason. She just didn't want to confront it yet.

Her phone suddenly buzzed in her back pocket. Quickly she pulled it out—it was probably Paul ordering her around some more—but found a text from a number she didn't recognize.

_Where are you? This is your astoundingly sexy and talented fiancé btw._

A groan escaped from deep in her lungs. Right now, she didn't want to deal with Brad any more than she wanted to deal with Dean. Nevertheless, she texted him back. He would only pester her relentlessly if she didn't.

_Why? How the hell did you get my number?_

His reply came not a minute later; and she should have known the answer before she saw it.

_Paul. Come backstage near the ring entrance. I have a present for you ;)_

A present? Her nose crinkled in disgust. She didn't know what he could possibly have for her, but knowing him it wasn't anything she actually wanted.

_What?_

Her phone buzzed a few seconds later—and she rolled her eyes at his reply.

_You have to come get it, sweetheart._

He wasn't going to let this go. _Fine_, she texted back and marched off toward the ring entrance. If this "present" was anything even remotely unprofessional she was going to hurt him.

She found him just a few feet from the ring entrance, looking dapper as usual in slacks and a fitted button up, his elbow propped casually atop an electrical box; but, more importantly, she found him looking suspiciously empty handed.

"Well?" she asked as she approached him. "What is it?"

He didn't say anything. Instead he straightened up and glanced around—and before Hannah could pry he pulled a tiny velvet box out of his pocket and bent down on one knee.

Everyone in the vicinity stopped to watch, curious smiles on their faces. Hannah froze. This was _not_ happening.

"Hannah McMahon," he started with a proud grin, "will you marry me?"

Loud clapping, whoops and hollers sounded all around while Hannah's face slowly burned a bright shade of red. But she wasn't even looking at Brad—she was too busy staring in shock at the shining diamond he had revealed. Or, at least it _looked_ like a diamond.

"Is that real?!" she proclaimed and snatched it up, leaving him still kneeling before her. The onlookers booed, but she ignored them.

"Will my answer affect yours?" he asked.

"Get up," she rebuked and pulled him to his feet. Thankfully, everyone around went back to their business. "Please tell me this isn't real," she said as she pulled the ring free to examine it. The band and setting were silver in color, and an impressive cushion-cut rock sat surrounded on all sides by tiny sparkling stones. If it _was_ real, someone had unnecessarily spent thousands of dollars.

"It's a knock-off," Brad answered, much to her relief. "Cubic zirconia. Paul picked it up at a department store for 90 bucks."

Fucking Paul. Hannah would be sure to send Stephanie roses when she _killed_ him.

"You could have at least said yes, you know," Brad charged. "I mean, I went all out here."

She gave him a look. "I already did. Remember?"

She shoved the ring back under his nose, but he didn't make a move to take it. His eyes grew wide as he did his best impression of a sad puppy dog. "You're not going to wear it? But it's a symbol of our love…"

Hannah couldn't rightly tell if he was being sarcastic or if he was just being obnoxious, but there was no way she was putting that ring on her finger, at least not while the cameras weren't rolling. "I'm not going to wear it _now_. If I wore it now all the Divas would see it and fawn over it and think it's real, and then what am I supposed to say?"

"The truth: That we're madly in love and eloping in Vegas on Monday."

Okay, _now_ he was just being obnoxious. "You wish. Thanks for the ring, _babe_."

His grin returned upon hearing that. "I'm growing on you, aren't I?" he said, but she blatantly ignored it.

"Will that be all? I need to get ready for the 6:30 panel."

"I suppose," he consented with a sigh, and with his "permission" she started on her way—but then he said something that stopped her. "Seriously though, Paul said you have to wear the ring."

Slowly she turned; the glare she met him with could have killed Medusa. "_What?_ Why?"

Brad gave her a look like the answer was completely obvious. "Kayfabe, duh. There are thousands of fans here. It'll make the big reveal more realistic if you're seen wearing it around."

Hannah's jaw set. Why? she thought. Why did all of Paul's abominable ideas have to make so much goddamned sense? "Whatever," she breathed, and pulled the ring out of the box to push it onto her finger—but Brad snatched it from her.

"Uh uh, I don't think so." He took her left hand in his, and with a wink he gently slid the faux engagement ring onto her slender ring finger. "Love you."

"Spare me," she groaned. She only hoped they wouldn't have to interact in public, too.

* * *

It was the second and final "Shooting Straight" panel of the day, and undoubtedly the biggest one of the Fan Fest. It was titled "The Infamous DX," and, naturally, it was all about the one and only D-Generation X. Unfortunately, Shawn Michaels was absent from the panelists, but Triple H, X-Pac and The New Age Outlaws all were there—and they weren't even the best part. An hour and a half before the panel itself, those fans who had paid the $250 fee were treated to a VIP reception where they were able to hobnob with the likes of Randy Orton, Ryback and Paul Heyman.

Luckily for Hannah, the WWE Champion wasn't accompanying his manager.

She was standing alone by the refreshment table, surveying the room, when Kaitlyn and Natalya approached her with beaming smiles. Hannah already knew what they were going to say before they said it.

"Congratulations, Hannah!"

Kaitlyn was probably the hundredth person to congratulate her in the last half hour; it hadn't taken long for word to spread like wildfire that Brad had actually gotten down on bended knee and "proposed." Somewhere, Paul was rubbing his hands together in cruel satisfaction.

"Let me see it, let me see it!" Natalya insisted. Automatically, Hannah extended her hand so that Natalya could get a look at the ring. Honestly—her first time getting to show off an engagement ring and it wasn't even real.

"He has good taste," she approved.

"Yeah, well it's a fake," Hannah rebutted. "And Brad didn't even pick it out—Paul did."

"Does Stephanie know about this?" Kaitlyn joked. The implication alone made Hannah shudder; Paul was like her brother.

"Oh, I'm sure she was in on it," she said.

"You know," Natalya started, "Brad is quite the catch. I know a few Divas who wouldn't mind pretending to be engaged to him."

Hannah's nose scrunched up as if she had smelled something foul. "But he's so… _Brad_."

"He can be, yeah," Kaitlyn agreed. "But he's also pretty easy on the eyes."

"How bad can he really be?" Natalya added on. "He's from South Carolina, isn't he? I'm sure somewhere deep down inside there's a perfect Southern gentleman."

That was enough to make Hannah laugh out loud. "I'll believe it when I see it."

"Good evening, ladies."

Unexpectedly, they were joined by none other than Paul Heyman. He looked different, for some reason—and then Hannah realized it was because he wasn't clutching Punk's WWE Championship like he always did on television. It was strange seeing him without it.

"Hey, Paul," Kaitlyn greeted, "what's up?"

"Oh, nothing much," he answered with a bit of a shrug, "just getting ready for the Rumble tomorrow. Speaking of—would you mind if I borrowed Hannah for a minute? It's _business_."

Hannah raised an eyebrow at him, and Kaitlyn and Natayla, too, seemed a little curious at his insistence. Nevertheless, they consented and bid Hannah goodbye, leaving her alone with Heyman.

"What sort of business?" she questioned. She wasn't surprised that they had business to discuss. After all, her onscreen fiancé was a new "Heyman guy," and tomorrow night she would reveal herself to the world as the leader of the group who had interfered in nearly all of Punk's title defenses—of course they had business to discuss. But she thought it was a bit odd that he was choosing to bring it up here and now.

But she soon discovered his reasoning: It wasn't actually _business_ that he wanted to discuss at all.

"I'm just curious," he started. "What happened between you and Punk?"

Her stomach dropped. Why in the world would he ask her that? Did he know something? Had someone _said_ something to him? The only person who could have told him anything was Phil. If he had uttered even one word on the matter, Hannah would never, ever forgive him. What had happened between them was _personal_, and no one's business but their own.

But just as when she and Brad had run into Amy, Hannah's only option was to play dumb. "What are you talking about?"

Unfortunately, though, Heyman wasn't buying it.

"Hannah, one thing you should know about me is that I'm very intuitive. And when Punk heard that _you_ were going to be the mastermind behind The Shield, he got this look on his face. A look like he was remembering something he regretted—and I could have sworn that Phil Brooks was a man without _any_ regrets."

If her stomach had already plummeted, hearing that caused Hannah's heart to go right after it. So that's all she was to Phil now—a regret.

Heyman went on. "_You're_ the one who convinced him to re-sign with WWE the summer before last, aren't you?"

Yes, she was. Hannah had played a huge role in the negotiations between Phil, her father and the VP of Talent Relations at the time, John Laurinaitis. She had convinced the powers that be that it would be absolutely moronic to let him go, and she had convinced Phil that there was no better place for him than with WWE—it was his home.

But during those weeks Hannah had been more than just an advocate for Phil. She had been a confidant, a friend; and the more they had talked, the more time they had spent together, the more she hadn't been able to deny the mutual attraction between them. In hindsight she should have fought it; she should have listened to her head and not her heart. Then she never would have gotten so burned.

But again—none of that was anyone's business outside of her and Phil.

She narrowed her eyes at Heyman. "It's great that you're so intuitive, Paul. But just because you may have picked up on something doesn't mean you're free to question me about it. It's none of your business."

Heyman grinned down at her; the kind of grin you would give someone when you felt you knew better than them. "Hannah, you especially should know that in _this_ business, no one's business is their own. If I were you, I would take that to heart before stepping out on international television tomorrow night."

The shit-eating grin never left his face. It took all of Hannah not to smack him.

But when he finally strolled off, all high and mighty, she realized that he was right. It would be damn near impossible to keep her past with Phil a secret forever, not unless both of them could act like nothing had ever happened.

And _that_ was definitely impossible.


	5. Revelations and Returns

_Alright, dear readers, the time has come for my little ol' fic to begin its departure from what's actually happening in WWE. The Shield attacking Brad Maddox put a major kink in my plans, so it took me a little bit to figure out how to swing it for my story - but I think I've come up with a decent alternative._

_Please review this chapter and let me know what you think of my version of events. I'm a little worried it's totally convoluted and dumb._

_This one's super long. Enjoy._

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but Hannah and the plot._

**Chapter Five**

_Jan. 27, 2013  
WWE Royal Rumble  
U.S. Airways Center – Phoenix, Arizona_

It was mere hours before show time and, as per usual at WWE PPVs, everyone was running around like chickens with their heads cut off getting all the final details in order. But, at the moment, Hannah McMahon had one mission and one mission only: Find the WWE Champion.

She needed to hear it straight from him—had he or hadn't he said anything to Heyman concerning their relationship? As Hannah figured it, the odds were 50/50 either way. Phil Brooks was a ladies' man, and that was no secret to anyone; but he had never been the kind to publicize his personal life. She knew he would have never revealed any details to Heyman outright, without any reason. Bragging about his "conquests" just wasn't something Phil did.

But if Heyman had approached him with the same question he had approached her with last night? Well, Phil would have had no problem answering him then—and that was what worried Hannah.

She was marching with absolute purpose through the backstage corridors toward his dressing room, a look of sheer determination on her face that let everyone around know to just leave her to her business. But, of course, that didn't keep Paul "obey me or feel my wrath" Levesque from intercepting her.

"Hannah, there you are. I have bad news."

Leading with the words "bad" and "news" was enough to make her stop and listen. Actually, they kind of scared her coming from him; he was her boss, after all. "What is it?"

"Well, it's not 'bad' news so much as it's just 'news.' Your debut has been pushed back to tomorrow night."

At first Hannah thought he was pulling her leg. But when he didn't break out in a conspiratorial grin a few seconds later she knew he was being serious. "What? Why?"

"It just works better that way," he answered with a shrug. "Tonight The Shield is going to attack The Rock during the WWE Title match under the cover of total darkness. Then tomorrow night, Vince will conduct a performance review of Paul Heyman on Raw. He'll accuse him of being the one behind The Shield's attacks and that's when you'll reveal yourself."

Hannah expelled a sigh. She had been looking forward to getting her debut over and done with; the anticipation was causing her an unnecessary amount of anxiety. But there was nothing she could do about it now. "Well, what about the title? Will Punk be stripped? Will Rock win anyway?"

Paul raised his eyebrows. "_That_ I'm not telling you."

She let her head roll back and her eyes look up to the ceiling. All this not knowing and being constantly kept on hold was _exhausting_, not to mention aggravating. If this was what the Superstars and Divas went through on a regular basis it was a wonder they didn't all just quit. "So basically I didn't need to be here this whole weekend," she postulated. "I could have been at home, doing my _real_ job."

"_This_ is your real job now," he rebuffed. "Get used to it; people get nixed all the time. You're not even the only one tonight. The Divas Championship match was scrapped."

Hannah's mouth dropped as soon as the words left his mouth—she knew how excited Kaitlyn had been to defend her title against Tamina Snuka. "_What?_ Paul, that's not fair! When are you all gonna start giving a shit about the Divas division?"

Paul swatted at the air as if he was batting her argument away. "Hannah, I really don't have time to debate you on this right now. Just enjoy the show."

He walked off before she could spout off anything else. Her brow lowered. "Enjoy the show," she muttered to herself, but she pushed Paul's news to the back of her mind. She still needed to find Phil.

She continued on her course toward his dressing room, not stopping for anything or anyone, and not two minutes later she was standing at his door. She rapped her knuckles swiftly three times against the surface. It was only a few seconds before he answered.

"Hannah," he proclaimed; nothing else. He seemed surprised to see her.

"We need to talk," she said without explanation. When Phil realized none was coming, he nodded.

"Sure."

He pulled the door open so that she could come in. Hannah entered with caution—she fully expected to find a certain someone in the room with him—but much to her surprise, he was alone. "Where's Amy?" she asked once he had closed the door.

"Not here," he answered bluntly. He crossed his arms over his chest and fixed her with an inquisitive, albeit stern, stare. "I'm guessing this isn't about tonight?"

"No," she shook her head as she dropped down into a chair; might as well get right to it. "Last night at the Fan Fest Heyman came up to me and just flat-out asked what happened between us, like he knew something. I want to know if you've said anything to him about it."

Phil's eyes softened, and if the deep confusion that appeared on his brow was any indication, it was apparent that he hadn't breathed a word to his manager about anything. Hannah felt a tremendous weight lift off her chest—at least there wouldn't be cause for even more tension between them.

"No." He slowly crossed the room to take a seat across from her. "I haven't said anything to anyone about that, Hannah. I respect you more than that."

That caught her off-guard. What was she supposed to say to that? "Thank you"? But he went on before she could gather her thoughts.

"Did he give a reason for asking?"

"Well," she started with a sigh, "according to him, when you found out that I would be the one behind The Shield you got a look on your face like you were remembering something you regretted. Apparently it was enough for him to figure something was up."

Phil glanced off to the side, his brow still creased. He clearly remembered the moment Heyman had been referring to. "What did _you_ say?"

"That it's not any of his business, more or less. Then he told me that in this business no one's business is their own and I should think about that before stepping out on international television."

Heyman's ugly mug flashed in Hannah's mind as she recalled the haughty way he had sneered down at her, like she was some wide-eyed rookie blissfully ignorant to the dirtier side of professional wrestling. _Please_. If she was ever given reason to slap him onscreen she'd make sure he wouldn't taste for a week.

"He's right, you know," Phil stated. Hannah didn't acknowledge it.

"Look, I just don't want this to become a thing for people to gossip about. I'm sure you don't, either. So let's just do our best not to give anyone reason to be suspicious."

For a few long seconds not a word was spoken; they just stared each other down from across the room. Hannah knew exactly what Phil was thinking: He couldn't care less if people gossiped about it, because they were the ones who knew the truth and that was all that mattered. But eventually he acquiesced—in his own unique way.

"That's what I had been trying to do two weeks ago."

Hannah bit down on her jaw in agitation. "Well I guess _I'll _try harder from now on."

She stood and made to leave, but something stopped her short. Suddenly she remembered something he had said earlier; something that she thought strange. "Wait. You haven't told _anyone_ about what happened?"

He shook his head again. "No."

"Not even Amy?"

He stood up, the hardness returning to his eyes as he walked toward her. "No, I haven't told anyone, not even my best friend. There's no reason or need to tell Amy. Why would I?"

"I don't know," she shot, putting up her defenses. "The night you and I talked, backstage in Texas, I ran into her and she acted really awkward about seeing me. I figured she knew."

"Were _you_ acting awkward?" he charged. Her guilty silence gave him his answer. "That's probably why _she_ was acting awkward. Besides, you two aren't that familiar anyway, are you?"

No, they weren't familiar at all. Hannah had barely been out of college by the time Amy retired. "Okay, I get it," she said with a roll of her eyes. "You didn't tell her. Good luck tonight."

She turned to leave for good—but Phil reached out and tugged at her wrist. Her stomach grew warm with a long-forgotten sensation. Butterflies. They were fighting to live.

"Hannah," he said her name, soft and low. It broke her heart. "For the record, I don't regret what happened between us. What I regret is how I handled it."

Hannah looked up into his olive-colored eyes—they were so sincere, so riddled with guilt. She wanted desperately to forgive him; she wanted so badly to move past everything. She thought she already had moved past everything. But now, feeling his touch again, the wound opened fresh as new.

"You lead me on, Phil. That was a conscious decision. I don't see how you could regret it."

"I wasn't trying to lead you on," he insisted. "Everything that happened, everything I did and said was absolutely genuine. I swear that to you."

If his touch had reopened the wound, those words were the salt. Tears stung at the back of her eyes and nose, threatening to spill over right there in front of him. Why was he saying this to her now? It made absolutely no difference now, and that made it hurt all the more. "It doesn't matter," she rebuffed. "You've made your choice. I wasn't the one you wanted."

His fingers fell from her wrist; she made her way to the door. She paused to look back at him, her hand steady on the doorknob. "Oh, and by the way, they pushed my debut back to tomorrow. So don't worry about having to work together tonight."

With that she left. She needed to get out of the building, _now_.

She all but sprinted to the nearest exit, bursting out onto the loading dock of the arena and into the arid desert air. It was near 70 degrees out—40 degrees warmer than back home—but Hannah didn't bother going out into the warmth of the sun. She plopped down onto the cement stairs and put her head her hands, fighting back the tears. She was _not_ going to cry. There was no point lamenting something that had never really been hers to begin with.

"Want one?"

Hannah closed her eyes—of all the people to turn up it had to be him? She pushed back her hair and looked up; Dean Ambrose was holding out a pack of cigarettes to her. His sudden appearance baffled her. Where in the world he had come from? Had he already been out here?

"No," she declined. "I don't smoke."

He shrugged and pulled one out for himself. "You look like you could use one, that's for damn sure."

She frowned at him as he lit up. In all actuality, she hated cigarettes. They were an absolutely foul habit. "You shouldn't do that. Don't you know how bad they are for you?"

He took a long drag before answering. "Nope. I've lived under a rock my whole life, haven't you heard?"

Her frown deepened into a scowl. If he was going to be an ass about it she would just ignore him.

But, of course, Dean had other plans. He sat down next to her on the step. It was a narrow fit, and his shoulder brushed against hers. For a very brief second Hannah thought she smelled something pleasant, his cologne, maybe; but then all she smelled was smoke.

"What's bothering you, boss?"

She sent him a tight-lipped grin. "You mean other than you?"

Right now, Hannah didn't care if he _was_ crazy. Right now she just wanted to be left alone.

But her lip only satisfied him. "Now, Hannah," he started with a grin, "you should know that sass only encourages me."

Something all too suggestive burned in his blue eyes. He put the cigarette to his lips and took another drag. Hannah looked away.

"I'm just annoyed with this new role," she threw out. Perhaps if she answered with a half-truth he would leave her be. "Paul just told me they've pushed back my debut. Again. I didn't have to be here this whole weekend."

Unexpectedly, Dean reached out and picked up her left hand. His fingers were rough to the touch. "Well for someone who's so _annoyed_ by it you sure are taking it seriously," he noted as he eyed the engagement ring on her finger.

Hannah retracted her hand. At this point Brad would have been a welcome distraction. Where was her fake fiancé when she needed rescuing? "I put it on automatically this morning," she mumbled. "With my luck I'd probably lose it if I wasn't wearing it."

She swatted at a cloud of cancerous smoke as it drifted toward her, but Dean didn't seem to care one bit that she was disgusted by it.

"Now tell me what's actually bothering you," he said.

Hannah's body went rigid. She _really_ didn't want to discuss this with him. "There's nothing else to say."

That made him laugh, short and unbelieving. Hannah shrunk away from him. "Listen, sweetheart, I may be a little unhinged—and I know you think I am—but don't take me for a moron. You ran out here looking like you were about to ball your pretty little eyes out. I highly doubt a delayed debut would elicit that reaction."

She clenched her teeth and stared straight ahead. He was beginning to make her extremely uncomfortable, but she was not going to answer him. What did he care, anyway?

"Is it Brad?" he pried. "Did you two fuck and now he's not returning your calls?"

That got her to respond. She whipped her head around at him, an incredulous and unbelievably offended look on her face. "_No_, Brad and I haven't _fucked_. Not that I would tell _you_ if we had."

He nodded slightly, his gaze never leaving hers, assessing her. He took one final draw off his cigarette and blew the smoke up into the air. "Well, whoever it was that did make you come out here looking like that—he's the moron."

He flicked the butt onto the ground below, unfinished, and without another word stood and stalked back into the arena. Hannah watched him the entire way, dumbfounded.

Dean Ambrose was completely callous, Dean Ambrose was unabashedly uncouth; and yet, so far, Dean Ambrose had somehow been more perceptive to her than anyone Hannah had ever known.

* * *

_Jan. 28, 2013  
WWE Monday Night Raw  
Thomas & Mack Center – Las Vegas, Nevada_

The jig was up. CM Punk had lost his coveted WWE Championship at the Royal Rumble; his epic reign had been cut at 434 days. After The Shield had attacked The Rock in the dark, allowing Punk to pick up the victory, WWE Chairman Vince McMahon had crashed his celebration with the intention of stripping him of the title—but Rock had stopped him before he could. He wanted the match to be restarted. _He_ wanted to be the one to take the title from Punk. One People's Elbow later and the WWE had a new champion: The People's Champion.

Of course, Punk was irate. That night, at the top of the show he had stormed the ring, shouting and screaming that _he_ was the People's Champion, that Vince had restarted the match illegally, that he was the victim of a "Phoenix Screwjob." According to him, tonight was his 435th day as WWE Champion. He had been unrightfully _robbed_.

But, as it turned out, Punk was standing to lose more than just his precious title. Tonight, he could very well lose his manager, as well.

It was the end of the show. Vince and Paul Heyman were alone in the ring. Vince was conducting a performance review of Heyman, and he had bad news: Video evidence had surfaced connecting Heyman to The Shield.

The Chairman was straightforward as he could be. "So Mr. Heyman, let me ask you a question. Have you ever had, or currently have, The Shield and/or Brad Maddox under contract?"

The fans packed into the stands jeered as Heyman adjusted his tie; he looked nervous as a whore in church. "I wanna thank you for this opportunity," he opened in earnest, "to come out here and look you in the eye, and settle this once and for all. Because the answer to your question—and you have every reason in the world to ask me that question—and the answer to that question is: _No_, I have never had anything to do with Brad Maddox nor The Shield."

For the most part, the crowd was silent and attentive. But quite a few of them voiced their disbelief of his answer—and Vince seemed to agree with them. "Mr. Heyman let me ask you a question. Have you ever in your life, have you ever _lied?_"

That certainly wasn't the follow-up question Heyman had desired. He rubbed his hand over his face and then back down over his greasy, slick ponytail. The boss had him backed into a corner.

"You know that's not a difficult question," Vince prodded, and Heyman finally spoke.

"You know a long time ago I remember, in the Madison Square Garden dressing room I heard your father say the phrase, 'Adversity defines a man's character in his darkest hour.' And faced with the adversity of the fact that I have a feeling I know where this is going, I will tell you: I have lied every day of my stinking life because _I am a promoter_ and that's what promoters do. We lie to survive tonight, or simply to get to tomorrow; whatever answer I've had to give in my life to survive on that particular evening just so I could wake up the next day _alive_ and with a _business_ or with a _career_ or with a _job_, I have lied through my _teeth_, I have lied swearing to _God_, I have lied on the souls of my _parents_ and I have _lied, lied, lied_ and I don't regret it because that's what it took for me to _survive_.

"But I will tell you, looking you in the eye right now and _knowing_ that my career is on the line, I swear to you on everything that is holy, Vincent Kennedy McMahon, I've lied every day of my life but I swear to you I am _not lying now_."

Heyman's bulging eyes stared up at his employer in conviction, all but begging for mercy. But he should have known: Vince McMahon was not noted for his mercy.

"So you're an honorable man?"

Heyman expelled an anxious breath as he scrambled for a response. "I don't know if I'm an honorable man! But I'm _trying!_ I'm trying to become an honorable man! And maybe I can _learn_ from you on how to be an honorable man! I can't tell you I've been a saint; I've never been a saint in my life! But I— I wanna be here, and if it takes being an honorable man to be here then dammit that's what I'll be!"

Heyman was growing desperate. His head was on the chopping block and he had resorted to selling himself for all he was worth and more. Unfortunately for him, Vince wasn't buying. He held his hand up in front of Heyman's sweat-ridden face. "Let's get a good look at this honorable face. Can we a close up please of this honorable face?" Slowly the camera began to zoom in on Heyman's mug. "We're getting there," Vince said. "Closer. Closer." The camera stopped, too close for comfort, and Vince asked the crowd, "Is this an honorable face?"

"_NO!_" they screamed in unison. Las Vegas was calling for Heyman's head.

"Is this an honest man?" Vince went on.

"_NO!_"

It certainly wasn't looking good for Punk's manager. "Mr. Heyman, I want to show you some footage now," Vince said, "and after we show you the footage I'd like to get your comments if you don't mind. Now chances are, I think you'll recognize it when you see it. Let's roll the footage—"

"WAIT!"

Heyman shouted into the microphone and shot his hand out in protest, his face twisted in absolute anguish. He had finally been pushed to his last resort; he had finally been pushed to confession. Or, more accurately, to accusation. "I know who's responsible for this, Mr. McMahon! I can tell you who's responsible for Brad Maddox and The Shield! I know I look like the guilty party but I've been set up! _None_ of this was my idea! I was _manipulated_, Mr. McMahon, I was a pawn! I swear to you, none of this was my doing!"

The fans grew rowdy at the bombshell of a revelation. If Heyman wasn't really the one behind The Shield and Brad Maddox they wanted to know who was—and so did Vince.

"Who then, Mr. Heyman, _was_ it?"

Heyman stood up straight, and his expression became hard and resolute. The next words he uttered were none that anyone had expected. "Your daughter. _Hannah_ McMahon."

The arena erupted in a mixture of shock and confusion. Hannah McMahon! Hannah McMahon? Some of them knew of the youngest McMahon child, others didn't. But one thing they all shared at that moment was absolute astonishment.

"I swear to you on my _life_ that's the truth, Mr. McMahon!" Heyman insisted. "Brad Maddox and The Shield work for your daughter!"

Vince's eyes were burning a hole through the groveling man before him; if he were God, Heyman would have been struck down dead. How dare this scum, this two-timing swindler accuse his youngest child, his precious little girl, of such a scheming, horrible thing. His jaw was locked as his face grew red with anger—and soon enough it burst forth like a damn breaking.

"Paul Heyman, you lying sack of—"

"Hold it!"

Hannah's voice suddenly echoed throughout the arena. Everyone turned in their seats, searching everywhere for her whereabouts; but soon enough she emerged from under the titantron, appearing for the very first time in front of the WWE Universe.

"Hold it right there, _pops_," she said. She strutted down the ramp to the ring, scanning the sea of thousands of faces. They were quiet. They wanted to hear what she had to say.

"I guess I'm busted, thanks to _Paul_ here. You really wet the bed, didn't you, Paul?"

She climbed the steps to the ring, but deliberately paused on the apron. She pursed her lips at Heyman and raised a demanding brow; it didn't take long for him to get the point. He held the ropes for her, albeit begrudgingly so, and Hannah ducked into the squared circle. She approached her father, head held high, and looked him dead in the eye.

"As pathetic as he is, for once in his meager little life Heyman is telling the honest-to-God truth. Brad Maddox and The Shield work for _me_."

The fans booed; Vince's jaw slacked. The rage drained from his features and left behind nothing but distraught. He didn't want to believe his own child was the one behind all the havoc; not again. "What? Why, Hannah?"

"I'll tell you why!" Heyman eagerly interjected; at this point he was doing all he could to save his own ass. He pointed a pudgy finger at Hannah. "Your darling daughter and Brad Maddox are _engaged_, Mr. McMahon! She just wanted to make him somebody and soiled the integrity of your good business in the process!"

The crowd jeered and whistled at the news, and just as her father had moments before, Hannah fixed Heyman with a glare that could kill. This was certainly not how she had wanted her dad to find out she was engaged.

Vince's eyes, however, were trained on his daughter. "_What?_" he boomed in his gravelly voice. Hannah was instantly flashed back to every time she had ever been caught in trouble as a child, but she held her ground.

"Yes, Brad and I are engaged and I did want to get his name out there," she quickly admitted. "But it was never my intention to soil your good business. How could I when you've already done that yourself, _Dad_?"

A second wave of shock rippled throughout the arena. Had she really just gone there?

"_What?_" Vince repeated. There was even more venom in his voice than there had been before.

Hannah stepped closer. She may have been exposed, but she certainly wasn't backing down. She narrowed her eyes and wasted absolutely no time telling her father exactly _what_.

"You heard me. You don't care about _wrestling_, Dad. You haven't in _years_. The only thing you care about is profit; money. Vince McMahon is all about the Benjamins and nothing else.

"Don't get me wrong; I understand _why_ you're all about the money. You are running a, what do you call it? _Sports-entertainment_ business? You need to make a profit to provide for all these theatrics. But where you fail is that you're _blinded_ by the money. So much so that you ignore talent, that you ignore hard work, that you ignore those who _deserve_ recognition. You don't care how good or how dedicated someone is as long as they rake in the cash for you, and thanks to that 'business model' people like CM Punk have been unfairly treated for _years_.

"CM Punk is a genius on the _mic_, he's a genius in the _ring_, he's here _every single night_ and you _know_ he can make you money. You have the proof. But you're too damn _greedy_. You don't care that you've screwed the greatest WWE champion you've had in years because all that talks to you is _money_. The Rock and Ryback never should have been granted those title shots. The Rock isn't a _wrestler_. Ryback isn't anywhere _near_ CM Punk's caliber. But you just don't give a damn. _That's_ why I created The Shield, to battle your _idiocy_. To rectify all those who _deserve_ to be in this ring every single night, those who _deserve_ to be the main event at WrestleMania—not just those who _you_ want."

Hannah stared her father down, all too proud of her public dismantling of his business ethics. Those fans in the crowd who agreed with her words, those ones who had applauded The Shield and supported their mission all along stood from their seats and clapped, cheering Hannah loudly and wholeheartedly. Those fans who didn't agree, however, booed her just as they had Heyman.

Vince raised his head and glared down his nose at his daughter. His façade was stoic as a statue, but Hannah knew him better than that. There was an unbridled rage bubbling just below the surface, and it would only be so long before it burst forth like a broken levee.

Heyman, on the other hand, saw this as the perfect opportunity to clear his own name. "You see, Mr. McMahon! She admits to it all! I am an innocent!"

"Oh cut the crap, Heyman!" Hannah interrupted. She was thoroughly _done_ with him. "You and Punk are the ones who came complaining to me in the first place! You _asked_ for a way to throw Punk's matches!"

"I did no such thing! Mr. McMahon I did no such thing, your daughter is a liar!"

"_Shut up!_" Vince boomed. His face was burning red with anger. "Both of you shut the hell up!"

The fans roared. Heyman gulped. Hannah glared.

"At this point I don't want to hear what either of you have to say!" he raged on. "Hannah, I don't care about your _idiotic_ reasoning, and I sure as hell don't care whether or not you're innocent, Mr. Heyman. You've _both_ already sealed your fate."

Hannah's face fell as her father's mouth twisted into a vengeful grin. _No_. She and Heyman both began shaking their heads, pleading with him as the crowd's excitement grew, waiting for the punch line. Justice was about to be dealt.

"Hannah, Mr. Heyman; _both_ of you are—"

Suddenly an all too familiar opening riff ripped throughout the arena, one that the WWE Universe hadn't heard since last August. The fans became unglued, immediately forgetting the action in the ring. Brock Lesnar was back.

Vince, Heyman and Hannah all stood in gaping shock at the monster of a man advancing down the ramp. Vince wore a look of displeasure, Heyman one of worry. Hannah, however, stood stock still, petrified as he circled the ring. She didn't know what he was there for or what he might do, but maybe if she didn't move he wouldn't see her.

After his lap around them, stalking them, Lesnar climbed between the ropes. He eyed Vince like a predator would its prey. Heyman tried to talk him down, but he was having none of that; he pointed a commanding finger for his manager to stay in the corner and out of his way. Hannah still didn't move.

Lesnar stepped to Vince, nose to nose. Neither of them said a thing as they stared each other down. A smirk slowly crossed Lesnar's face.

"If I were you," Vince warned, "I wouldn't do something I would regret later on."

Lesnar stepped back. He was considering the Chairman's words. Again Heyman tried to intervene, and again Lesnar resigned him to the corner of the ring. Then his eyes landed on Hannah. They were daring her to say something, daring her to try to stop him. But she knew better than to get in his way. She copied Heyman and shrunk back into a turnbuckle.

Lesnar's attention turned back to Vince. He thought for a second longer—and then he attacked. He picked Vince up like a child, holding him over his shoulders, and threw him to the mat in a devastating F5.

Heyman dropped to his knees in sheer horror as Lesnar paced over the body of the fallen Chairman. "No, no! Stop! No more! No more!" he cried, but Lesnar paid him no mind—instead he fixed his eyes once again on Hannah.

She shrunk further back into the corner, her eyes growing wide with fear. He was advancing on her. The fans were raucous, calling for her destruction like a bloodthirsty horde, but she couldn't get her legs to work. He loomed over her like a titan, and she cowered further down the ring post—but before he could get any closer an equally large mountain of muscle blocked his way. Roman Reigns. The next thing Hannah knew Dean was pulling her out of the ring to safety.

Reigns and Lesnar held each other's gaze for a few tense seconds, but the former knew this wasn't the time or place. Slowly he backed out of the ring and joined Hannah, Dean and Seth on the ramp. Hannah was still in shock, pale as a ghost, hiding behind Dean. Lesnar had been far too close to giving her an F5 to match her father's.

The cat was out of the bag, the beast was back—and all hell had broken loose.


	6. Pieces of the Puzzle

_First of all, thank you for the AMAZING response to the last chapter. You all are fabulous and I love you :)_

_My apologies that this took longer to post than usual - it's been a crazy week. I do have one announcement: There's a poll over on my profile page pertaining to this story, and I would appreciate it if you would take the time to stop over at some point and take it. I think I know what the results will be; but I want to see what you say, anyway :)_

_In other news, I'm glad it doesn't look like Brad Maddox is turning face just yet; that would have made things even more difficult for me. As always, I hope you enjoy my version of events, and please review!_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but Hannah and my plot._

**Chapter Six**

_Jan. 30, 2013  
Stephanie McMahon's House  
Greenwich, Connecticut_

Every wrestling news website from to the dirt sheets down to little personal fan blogs had exploded overnight with articles and features and opinions about Hannah McMahon. Who was she? What did she have to gain in aiding CM Punk? Where would The Shield go from here? And what about Brad Maddox?

Seeing so much publicity on herself so suddenly plastered across every corner of the Internet left Hannah feeling rather dizzied. For years now she had been the "forgotten McMahon" and more than happy to live her life under the radar. In fact, that was how she preferred it. She didn't have to deal with fans hounding her wherever she went, or the invasion of her privacy or nasty rumors spread by jealous girls and immature guys with nothing better to do. She lead a quiet life compared to the rest of her family, and she didn't mind it that way.

But honestly—so far she didn't mind the warmth of the limelight, either.

"Hannah, you've been reading articles on yourself all night," Stephanie noted as Hannah swiped her finger across the screen of her ever-present iPad. "I thought you _didn't_ want to be famous."

Hannah scoffed at her sister's smirk, but didn't look up from the device. "Please, Stephanie. I've been reading them since yesterday morning."

Stephanie just rolled her eyes in amusement as she took another sip of her post-dinner pinot noir. It was well deserved—that evening she had hosted nearly the entire McMahon clan in her home for a family dinner. It was a tradition they had upheld for years now: As hectic as all their schedules were, as often as business allowed they would all gather together for a home cooked meal. If there was one thing Vince and Linda had taught their children it was that nothing, not even all the money in the world, was more important than family. Their close-knit bond was the very reason the family business was so successful in the first place; they would be nothing without each other's support.

But now the parents were gone, Shane had started on his hour-long drive back to New York City, the kids were in bed and Paul had retreated to his man cave, leaving the sisters to themselves. It was just as well; they both were eager to catch up on some of the juicier topics of conversation.

"Brad Maddox attacked by Brock Lesnar at SmackDown taping," Hannah read aloud a headline from WWE's website. She scanned over the article, including a backstage video of the attack. Lesnar had F5'd Maddox right onto the hood of a car. Truthfully, it looked quite brutal. "So he couldn't kick my ass so he went after my fiancé instead?" she asked.

Stephanie nodded. "Pretty much."

"Poor baby," Hannah pouted; her tone was absolutely dripping with sarcasm. It elicited a grin from Stephanie—but not for the reason Hannah thought.

"You know Paul is trying to set you two up, right? He thinks you'd make a good couple."

That finally got Hannah to tear her eyes away from the screen, wide and furious. "That big fat liar!" she rebuked. "I called him out on that and he said he _wasn't_ trying to set us up! And then he insinuated I was turning into a cat lady!"

"You don't own any cats."

"I know! Your husband's an ass."

"Well, maybe he isn't _trying_," Stephanie said after another sip of wine. "Maybe he thinks you two are such a good fit that it will happen organically."

Hannah only glared at her sister, and after a few seconds Stephanie couldn't help but laugh. It did sound pretty ridiculous.

"Paul isn't the one you should be worrying about, anyway," Stephanie went on. "I hope you're ready for Dad to put back on his hat as conductor of the Sheamus train."

Hannah let out a groan—she _knew_ this had been coming. That week The Shield had targeted Sheamus on SmackDown, and of course Hannah's father would use it as reason to, once again, push for her and the Irishman to become a real-life couple. Hell, he had already hinted to it at dinner that night. "Why is everyone so obsessed with my love life?!" she cried.

"Because it's non-existent," Stephanie answered—and then dodged when Hannah threw a crumpled up napkin at her. So she tried a more logical approach. "I'm not sure why Paul has taken an interest in your love life, but he does care a lot about you, whether you believe that or not. And as for Dad—you know he wants more grandkids."

Hannah frowned. It was true: Vincent Kennedy McMahon, hard-nosed WWE Chairman, Mr. "No Chance in Hell," had a gushy, soft spot in his heart for children. He spoiled his own grandchildren rotten, and Hannah knew he was eagerly awaiting the day she would add on to Shane's three boys and Stephanie's three girls. But she wasn't anywhere near ready to pop out a bunch of kids; she wasn't even sure she was ready for a relationship.

"Better get your babymaker up and running again, then," she retorted. "Maybe you should start tonight—you're getting kind of old."

Stephanie shot her a glare. "Mom was my age when she had you."

"Exactly. Get to work," she said. But Stephanie wasn't going to let her have the last word this time.

"And by the time I was _your_ age I was already married."

Hannah's brow lowered. "Bitch," she muttered. It brought a grin of pure satisfaction to her sister's face.

Stephanie finished off her glass and figured it was time for a change of subject—somewhat. "So how has it been working with Phil? I mean, you haven't really worked together but have you talked?"

Hannah ran a tired hand through her hair; she sure was getting grilled tonight, but it came as no surprise. "Yeah, we have. It's… I don't know. I thought I was over him."

Stephanie's eyebrows arched in shock upon hearing that. "You're not?"

"I don't know," she repeated. "He said some things to me at the Royal Rumble… I guess it just made me remember everything that happened. It still hurts to think about."

A shadow of remembrance darkened Hannah's eyes, and Stephanie's mouth turned down; she could recall the ordeal herself all too well, how it had changed Hannah. It had left her absolutely broken—and "broken" had never been a word Stephanie associated with her little sister. "Stubborn," "smart ass" and "go-getter" yes, but "broken" was not an adjective that described Hannah McMahon. But somehow, some way Phil Brooks had broken her; and it seemed that, in some ways, she still hadn't healed.

"Well, all the more reason for you to find someone else," Stephanie reasoned.

Hannah didn't have a response for that. So she went back to scanning the Internet; and, after a while, a question arose in the back of her mind that she just couldn't keep to herself any longer.

"So, what do you know about Dean Ambrose?"

For whatever reason, Stephanie's mouth parted and her eyes widened in sheer horror at the question. But before Hannah could ask what the big deal was she gave her the answer. "Hannah, please tell me _that's_ not who you're thinking about using to get over Phil. I know you have a thing for the bad boys, but he's toeing the line at full-on psycho."

Hannah mimicked Stephanie's ridiculous expression. _Really?_ That's what she thought this was about? "Please, I'm not thinking about using Dean Ambrose for _anything_."

"Well then what _are_ you thinking?"

"I don't know," she breathed in frustration. "He just has a way of getting to me."

"Like a Brad Maddox way of getting to you?"

"No. Like he somehow seems to understand things about me that I've never told anyone."

Yet again, for a few long seconds Stephanie did nothing but stare at her. Hannah might as well have been speaking gibberish. "You've had a heart-to-heart with _Dean Ambrose_?"

"_No_," she corrected. "Not intentionally, anyway. Somehow he just got me to open up to him, without even trying. And you _know_ how I guarded I am."

"Were you drunk?"

"_No_."

Stephanie paused, and then all she could offer was a shrug. "I don't know, Hannah; maybe he's so crazy because he's psychic or something. Why are you asking _me_ what I know about him, anyway? You know way more about the new guys than I do—you hired half of them."

"Well _he_ isn't one of the ones I hired, and Paul knows more about _all_ of them than me. I thought maybe he had told you something."

"Not anything you probably haven't already heard," she revealed. "What do you want to know? Why do you even care?"

"I don't know," Hannah repeated for the millionth time that evening, but this time it was more to herself than to Stephanie. "I just want to know."

Stephanie cocked a curious eyebrow. "Whatever floats your boat," she said and, content to leave the conversation at that, stood to put her glass in the sink. She didn't need to know why Hannah was so suddenly intrigued by the craziest third of The Shield, as weird as she thought it was.

But Hannah remained in her seat, her brow crinkled as she continued to contemplate the mystery that was Dean Ambrose. Despite what she had just said, she knew exactly why she was intrigued by him. He was a puzzle, an enigma, and there was a lot more to him than anyone was giving him credit for. There was a reason he was the way he was, and she wanted to uncover it.

She wanted to figure him out just as he had her.

* * *

_Feb. 4, 2013  
Monday Night Raw  
Atlanta, Georgia_

Hannah loved everything about Atlanta. She always had. She loved the culture, she loved the people, she loved the city—it was absolutely steeped in pro wrestling history. It was one of her favorite places to visit with one of the hottest crowds to perform in front of, and she was an absolute ball of nerves and excitement to get out there herself. She had only been out in front of the WWE Universe once, and already she had gotten a high from it. It was an adrenaline rush like no other.

Tonight, the attention would shift from the purported connection between CM Punk and Paul Heyman and Hannah, Brad Maddox and The Shield. Punk had already gone out earlier in the evening and vehemently denied Hannah's claim that they had all worked in collusion; for now, he would be focusing the majority of his attention on his rematch against The Rock at Elimination Chamber. As for The Shield, their sights would shift to three of WWE's biggest players: Ryback, Sheamus and the one and only John Cena.

Tonight, John Cena would call out Hannah to hold her accountable for her actions—and that's what was making her so nervous.

"You killed it last week, you'll be fine," Colby assured her as they sat backstage in catering. They were both already dressed and ready to go, but there was more than an hour to kill before they would make their appearance. "Just be glad Cena isn't bringing back the Dr. of Thuganomics gimmick. _Then_ I'd be worried for you."

Hannah laughed shortly to herself. "True. I don't know if I could stand up to being lyrically dismantled in front of the entire world."

"I can help you with promos, but not with rap battles," he said with a smirk. "That's Daniel's territory."

Hannah's head fell back as she grinned at the ceiling. Ever since Daniel Bryan had rapped on a track memorializing Captain Lou Albano he had claimed to be the next Eminem—but he really, _really_ wasn't. "Well I guess I'm up shit creek without a paddle, then."

"So it's only your second night out there and you're already stepping toe-to-toe with John Cena," Colby segued. "How does it feel now that everyone knows who you are, superstar?"

"Honestly?" she started. "This doesn't even feel like my life. I mean, when I got home last Wednesday someone actually stopped me in the airport and told me they believed in The Shield. I _almost_ broke kayfabe—it was so hard not to laugh, because I wasn't expecting it and he was so serious about it."

"Are you serious? That's awesome," Colby grinned. "What did you say?"

"My dad should take your advice."

Colby clapped his hands together loudly as he let out a hearty burst of laughter. "Yeah, Hannah, you don't need anyone's help. You're a natural."

"What's so funny, boys and girls?"

Daniel Bryan trudged in, grabbed a bottle of water and plopped down into the chair at the end of the table. He was in his wrestling gear, and sweaty and worn. His match against Rey Mysterio must have just finished.

"Just talking about Hannah's adventures with kayfabe," Colby answered. "Did Mark Henry make his big return?"

Daniel nodded as he took a big gulp of water. "He was tearing Rey up out there."

They fell into silence as Daniel caught his breath, but they weren't alone for long. Dean came through the door, looking ominous as ever, and Hannah's pulse involuntarily quickened. She shifted in her seat; why did he have this affect on her? Their eyes met as he made his way toward them, but only for a second. Just as quickly he had turned his attention to Colby.

"Hey," he nudged his teammate's shoulder, "Cena wants to talk about what's happening tonight."

"Aye, aye, captain," Colby said as he got up. "Stay golden, Hannah. I'll see you later on."

"What about me?" Daniel charged; but Colby waved him off.

"No one cares about you, Goat Face."

"That's _Greatest of All Time!_" Daniel yelled after them as they left. It made Hannah laugh, but it died quickly in her lungs. Suddenly she realized—if there was anyone here who had a shot at unraveling Dean Ambrose, it was Daniel Bryan.

"Hey, Daniel," she started, but she was completely unsure of how to open up the topic for discussion. So, naturally, she dove in head first. "You've known Dean for a while, right?"

"Yup," he nodded, "since our days in Dragon Gate USA. Why?"

Hannah shifted again. Why would he think she was asking? Was it weird that she was asking? _Should_ she even be asking? No matter what, though, she couldn't back out now—Daniel was waiting expectantly for her to spit it out. "I just wanted to know what you knew about him. I mean, everyone says things about him, how he's crazy or whatever, but I just wanted to hear something from a more reliable source. And I guess I'm too afraid to ask him himself."

She bit her lip, sheepishly awaiting his answer, wondering what he thought of her asking such an invasive, personal question about another human being. It really wasn't any of her business, and suddenly she wished she had just kept her mouth shut; but, surprisingly, Daniel answered both willingly and earnestly.

"Jon _is_ crazy," he said—it took her off-guard when he called him by his real name. "Crazy in the sense that he just doesn't give a damn what he puts himself through. He really just doesn't care—and I think it's because he's never had anyone who cares about _him_. He's been alone his whole life; I don't think he ever really learned how to have meaningful relationships of any kind with another person, you know? His parents were too concerned with their own selfish, screwed up problems to pay him any mind, and I can only imagine how much anger that would cause a kid, let alone how that anger would manifest itself. Wrestling was literally his golden ticket out of that life, and honestly, I think it saved him. If he hadn't started wrestling he probably would have just ended up like his parents, drugged out or in jail somewhere.

"But if you're wondering if he's _sociopath_ crazy?" he shook his head. "No. All he is is the product of a rough life. Once you get to know him you'll see. Wrestling is all he has. It's all he knows, really."

There was nothing Hannah could say. Even if there was, she was far too lost in thought to speak. She couldn't imagine what that must have been like, to grow up with parents who couldn't have cared less about you. To have to figure out everything on your own without anyone to guide you. To not feel loved. It made her feel all the more fortunate for the wonderful—if not a bit ridiculous—family she had been blessed with.

But as different as their upbringings had been, as juxtaposed as their backgrounds were Hannah and Dean shared a common factor: Wrestling seemed to be all they had in life.

* * *

John Cena stood in the middle of the ring; as always, the reaction of the crowd was split—some loved him, some loathed him. But he wasn't there to address the fans that night. He had other business to attend to.

"You know _right_ now, there's a television show called Monday Night Raw. And on that show is a guy named John Cena. The guy who _won_ the Royal Rumble match, is _going_ to WrestleMania and will _again_ be the WWE Champion.

"But first, _this_ guy thinks The Shield needs to be stopped, and stopped tonight. And what's that old saying? If you cut the head off the whole snake dies? So I'm gonna start with the head, the person who professed last week to the entire world to be the one behind The Shield all along. Hannah McMahon, why don't you come out here so we can have a little chat?"

Cena was pacing the ring like an animal; you would think he had called out The Shield itself rather than the far less physically threatening Hannah McMahon. But his anxiousness was due to his impatience. "I'll wait here all night—"

"Is that a _threat_, John?" Hannah emerged to boos from underneath the titantron. She stopped there at the top of the ramp—she was not getting in that ring with him. "Are you threatening to _cut off my head?_ Wait—are you calling me a _snake?_"

Cena glared over the ropes at her. "If the shoe fits, sweetheart."

"Snakes don't wear shoes, John," she parried. "Your parents clearly never took you to the zoo as a child."

"Cut the crap, Hannah!" Cena boomed into the mic. "I want to know why you sicked your pack of dogs on _John Cena!_ Last week, in front of your father and the entire world, you stood out here and claimed to use The Shield to battle injustice, to fight for all those hardworking wrestlers who deserve to be in this ring every single night! Well let me tell you something, Hannah: I am here _every single night!_ I bust my ass day in and day out for the WWE Universe and I _won_ the Royal Rumble match and _earned_ my title shot fair and square! So tell me how The Shield was so _justified_ attacking me last week!"

The fans were stirred into a frenzy by Cena's passionate tirade; some agreed with him, some didn't. But Hannah wasn't fazed by any of it. She stared down the ramp at Cena with a crooked smirk on her face. She found his outburst amusing. He had no idea.

"John, John, John. You've really got it all wrong. First of all, you're assuming that I'm some sort of mob boss—the _head of the snake_, as you put it—ordering hits on people for The Shield to carry out. You're assuming that I tell The Shield what to do." She shook her head, slowly. "I don't tell The Shield what to do, John. Maybe I did in the beginning, at Hell in a Cell and Survivor Series, but they've grown into their own working unit. I just happen to be in alliance with them.

"Second of all, why in the world do you think _I_ would be concerned with _you_ and your WWE title shot after what happened to _me_ last week? I have problems of my own to worry about! _I_ was nearly attacked by Brock Lesnar last week! My father had to have reconstructive hip surgery because he was attacked by Brock Lesnar last week! My fiancé is laid up in bed bruised and barely able to move because _he_ was attacked by Brock Lesnar at SmackDown last week! I have bigger issues than _John Cena_ to deal with!"

Cena's gaze hardened at her; he spoke lowly into the microphone. "It's your own damn fault that your father and fiancé were attacked by Brock Lesnar. If I were Brad Maddox I'd leave your ass."

The fans cheered as Hannah's icy eyes narrowed in contempt. Had she been in the ring she would have slapped Cena. But she wasn't, and so she did the next best thing. "_None_ of that was my fault! Just like it wasn't my fault that you got _your_ ass handed to you by The Shield last week! Like I said, I didn't tell them to attack you, and I didn't tell them to come out here with me to confront you tonight. But I didn't tell them to stay backstage, either…"

She trailed off, and as she did the crowd began to stir—Dean Ambrose, Seth Rollins and Roman Reigns had emerged, stalking down the arena steps through the crowd. There was a thud as Cena threw his mic aside; he crouched down, readying himself for the impending attack. There was going to be a fight.

Dean, Seth and Roman surrounded the ring, but they didn't enter. They simply stared Cena down—and before anyone could make a move, Ryback's theme music blasted throughout the arena. The Shield turned toward the ramp, waiting for him to come stomping to the ring; but he wasn't there. He was coming through the crowd, just as they had a minutes earlier.

Then Sheamus's theme hit. Soon the Celtic Warrior was running through the stands himself.

The Shield hadn't planned to face all three of them tonight; they hadn't planned for anyone to come to Cena's aid. Sheamus and Ryback stopped just outside the barrier, waiting. But The Shield decided to retreat. They hopped off the ring apron and started up the ramp—but they were stopped by a wall of Superstars as they emerged from backstage.

There was nowhere for them to go but back to the ring.

The tables were turned. Now Ambrose, Rollins and Reigns were the prey; Cena, Ryback and Sheamus the hunters. They had them surrounded. They climbed up onto the apron, and then they attacked.

Cena took Reigns, Ryback took Rollins and Sheamus went after Ambrose. Chaos erupted as the six men brawled in the corners, but the fight didn't last for long. Feeling that he was outgunned Reigns jumped through the ropes to the floor; Ambrose and Rollins were quick to follow. They jumped the barrier and fled up the arena steps—but Cena wasn't done with them yet.

"I got somethin' else to tell ya," he announced into a microphone. "You got a fight comin'. Yeah! There's a fight comin' and it's gonna be February 17th at the Elimination Chamber! Let me tell you about that fight you got comin'! You got a six-man tag team match. Oh yeah, that's right! Finally, The Shield is gonna be in a fair fight! 'Cause on February 17th The Shield faces Sheamus, Ryback, and me, John Cena."

The fans erupted at the news; and Ambrose, Rollins and Reigns were just as eager to go. They _wanted_ to fight.

"So now," Cena went on, "you need to get gone and tell your little friend Hannah McMahon, because February 17th, in New Orleans, _justice gets served!_"

Cena tossed the mic aside as his theme blasted through the speakers and out over the excited crowd. There was going to be a brawl at the Elimination Chamber, and they were ready for it.


	7. One of Us

_'Nother new chapter! I'll just leave it at that... something tells me you all will love this one ;)_

_As always thank you a million times for the wonderful reviews, and please take a second to leave some love at the end of this chapter._

_Disclaimer: I own nothing except Hannah and the plot._

**Chapter Seven**

_Feb. 6, 2013  
Ybor City  
Tampa, Florida_

"Aren't you glad you decided to come to Tampa with us instead of going back to boring old Connecticut?"

Kaitlyn and AJ beamed twin grins across the table at Hannah. She definitely hadn't planned on being in Florida right now. After SmackDown had concluded taping in Jacksonville the previous night, the two Divas, along with Colby and a handful of other people, had talked her into returning to Tampa with them for the remainder of the week. Paul had even encouraged it—apparently everyone except Hannah felt her life was in serious need of some R&R. But now that she was here, enjoying delicious authentic Latin cuisine under the warmth of the sun, she was glad she had listened for once.

"I'm glad about these tacos. I could care less about you two," she answered with a grin.

Kaitlyn thought for a second, trying to decide if she should be offended or not; but then she nodded. "These _are_ some bangin' tacos."

"So Hannah, I have to say," AJ started through a bite of food, "from one sneaky bitch to another, you're doing a really good job."

"Well thank you," Hannah accepted. It was a genuinely flattering compliment. "My motivation is to make my sister's run look amateur."

"Do you have any idea what the long-term plans are?"

She shook her head. "No. I don't think anyone does. Right now I'm only wondering two things: If and how I'll get involved in the match at Elimination Chamber and whether or not Brad and I are going to be the latest in a long line of ruined Raw weddings."

"You never know," Kaitlyn speculated, "maybe they'll switch it up and your wedding will actually go off without a hitch."

"Or maybe it'll turn out you're having an affair with someone in The Shield," AJ added.

Kaitlyn raised an eyebrow at her pint-sized friend. "Not everyone sleeps around like you, AJ," she quipped. AJ just stuck her tongue out at her.

"Whatever happens, I just hope I don't up and disappear at the end of my run with The Shield," Hannah said. "I don't know, I always thought it would be fun to be a manager or something."

"Oh, oh I know what could happen!" AJ fidgeted in her seat as she waved her hands excitedly in front of her. "So you and Brad are about to say 'I do' when The Shield crashes the wedding, because you had been seeing Dean behind Brad's back and he's not about to let you marry someone else because he's possessive like that. So Brad and Dean start a feud, but in the end you screw Brad over and pick Dean, Brad officially turns face, and then Roman and Seth get angry because Dean is leaving them in the dust. So The Shield disbands, and then you manage Dean to a World Title ushering in the McMahon-Ambrose era of WWE."

AJ finally allowed herself to stop and take a breath, grinning proudly at her imagined version of long-term events. Hannah and Kaitlyn stared at her, awestruck.

"You thought of all that _just now?_" Hannah asked.

She shrugged. "It all just sort of flowed together."

"Huh." Suddenly Kaitlyn's phone buzzed from next to her drink. "Chris texted me!" she announced as she snatched it up.

"Chris who?" AJ asked.

"_Chris_ Chris. Kassius Ohno. He's having a party tonight and he says Hannah Banana better come or he's going to kill her." She smiled up at Hannah. "Hannah Banana?"

Hannah gave a lopsided grin. "Yeah, he likes to call me that." It was a nickname Chris had given her when WWE had first begun pursuing him for a contract. Every now and again Colby would use it, but he had taken to calling her "boss" more these days. "He has my number, why didn't he just text me?" As if on cue, her phone went off. Sure enough, it was a text from Chris. "I'm having a party tonight. You better be there or I'll never forgive you," she read aloud.

"Well I guess we're going to a party tonight!" AJ proclaimed.

"Sweet, I'm gonna wear my new Chucks," Kaitlyn added—but Hannah was a little more apprehensive than her Diva companions.

"Who's gonna be at this party?" she asked. "The NXT roster? You don't think it would be weird for me to party with you all considering… who I am?" Hannah knew how pretentious that sounded, but Kaitlyn and AJ understood what she meant—she was Hannah _McMahon_, the head honcho's daughter, not to mention there was a good chance she had had a hand in hiring half the people who would be in attendance. It would be like partying with the office HR manager.

"Everyone in NXT loves you, you know that," Kaitlyn reasoned. "They just think of you as _Hannah_. I mean, you're the same age as—and younger than—the majority of them."

"Yeah," AJ agreed. "Besides, you're one of _us_ now."

The words made Hannah pause. _You're one of us now_. A performer.

"I suppose so," she said with a smile. "I haven't been to a party in a while."

* * *

_Chris Spradlin's Apartment  
Tampa, Florida_

Later that night, Hannah, Kaitlyn and AJ showed up fashionably late to Chris's party; they had been busy pre-gaming at Kaitlyn's apartment. Lord knows the boys had probably just bought a bunch of beer. But they were prepared—they had brought along a handle of Captain Morgan for good measure.

"Hannah Banana! Damn girl, I haven't seen you in forever."

Chris wrapped Hannah up in a giant hug as soon as she got through the door; it had been far too long since she had last seen the Knockout Kid. Like with Colby, they had become fast friends during the scouting-and-signing process. Somehow she always forgot how tall he was—he towered over her by a good nine inches, and at 5'7" she was by no means short. "I know. Been busy working, as always."

"She's a workaholic," Kaitlyn butted in.

"Oh trust me, I know," Chris said. "But there will be no work tonight! You all showed up just in time."

Hannah glanced around—there were just enough people there so things wouldn't become dull, but not enough that they would start a ruckus. She was familiar with most of them: Bo Dallas, Xavier Woods, Big E. Langston, Summer Rae, Paige. Maybe this wouldn't be so weird, after all.

"Oo, I want in next!" AJ proclaimed as she dive-bombed onto the couch where Xavier and Bo were playing a video game.

"Drinks are in the kitchen, ladies," Chris grinned. "Help yourselves."

"I'm gonna head to the ladies' room first," Kaitlyn said. She handed the rum off to Hannah, "You know what to do."

"Aye, aye," Hannah gave a salute and immediately started off toward the kitchen. She was intercepted for a moment by Paige—who was all too excited to see her and most definitely a bit buzzed—but she continued on her course; and when she rounded the corner she ran right into the chest of someone just as large as Chris. But it wasn't him.

"Jon! I mean Dean." She stumbled back as his hand caught her elbow. She didn't know what was more embarrassing: The fact that she had smacked right into him or the fact that she had called him by his actual name. Why in the world had she done that? But she forgot all about it when she saw the glint in his blue eyes. It was something mischievous, like he couldn't have possibly been more satisfied about how nervous he knew he made her—and he definitely knew it.

His other hand found her hip, his fingers grazing the soft skin just above the waistband of her jeans. Hannah's breath caught in her throat. Their bodies were pressed right up against one another; she could feel the muscle of his torso through the fabric of his shirt. He leaned in. "You can call me Jon," he said into her ear. The warmth of his breath landed on her neck, sending a tingling sensation shooting down her spine. "_Hannah_."

He studied her for another second, but didn't say another word. He just flashed a crooked smirk and left her standing there in the doorway to the kitchen. Her skin positively burned where she had felt his touch—no, her entire body was flushed.

She needed a drink.

* * *

Some time later the party had thinned and the alcohol was nearly gone, but there were still a few people hanging around. AJ was still playing video games, Kaitlyn was falling asleep on the couch and Hannah was hanging out on the balcony with Chris, thoroughly enjoying the cool of the salty late night breeze. Throughout the course of the evening she had polished off her third of the rum and then some; needless to say, she was feeling pretty good.

She stuck out her bottom lip and sent Chris a pout through the dark. "When're you coming up to the main roster?"

"I don't know," he said with a tired shrug of his shoulders and a shake of his head. "Soon, hopefully. I need to get back into the shape I was a few years ago, though."

"I should just promote you myself. You can be the fourth member of The Shield. You can interfere in the match at Elimination Chamber."

He smirked. "Shouldn't that be _your_ job?"

Hannah shrugged that time. "I guess. Honestly, I'm kind of hoping I can weasel my way into the match as special guest referee. That would be fun. My fiancé could coach me."

"Ha!" Chris let out a loud burst of laughter. "Dude, the second I heard you say that Brad Maddox was your fiancé I feared for the kid's safety. Be honest—the reason he was attacked by Brock Lesnar onscreen is because you attacked him off-screen, right? He's probably laid up in bed because of _you_."

At that moment the door to the balcony slid open and Jon joined them; but Hannah was either too drunk or too distracted to care. Her nose scrunched at Chris's question. "God, Chris, you make it sound like we had a night of really violent sex, or something."

"Well maybe next time you should designate a safe word."

Hannah kicked his knee with the bottom of her foot, but he caught her ankle and she nearly tumbled out of her chair. Chris laughed again.

"Are you sure you didn't drink that entire bottle of rum by yourself?"

"I would be praying at the alter of the procelain god right now if I had," she muttered.

A lull fell in the conversation, and the offending scent of cigarette smoke drifted up Hannah's nostrils. Jon was standing in the corner of the balcony, smoking, not saying a word. She thought it was odd—but then Chris spoke up and distracted her again.

"You know who seems unnecessarily agitated by your fake engagement to Brad Maddox?"

"You mean other than me?" she asked, genuinely baffled at the question—but then he gave her the answer.

"Phil."

Hannah tensed. That was the absolute _last_ name she would have ever expected to come out of his mouth in this conversation. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Chris started, "he texted me the other day, just about whatever, and I brought up the fact that you're on TV now and asked if he was excited to work with you, because I know you two are friends. So we were talking about it, and at one point he completely went off on this mini-rant about you and how you're always wearing your fake engagement ring when you don't need to be."

"Seriously?" Hannah was more shocked than anything—that didn't sound like Phil at all. Why did he even care? "What exactly did he say?"

"He just seemed really annoyed by the fact that you wear it all the time. He said, 'she doesn't even need to wear it, they haven't even been seen onscreen together,' 'she's only wearing it to keep Paul happy.' It was bizarre. If I didn't know any better I'd think he sounded jealous for some reason."

Hannah scoffed to herself. "Well if he is maybe _he_ should have put a ring on it instead of just hitting and quitting it."

Her stomach plummeted as soon as the words left her mouth; her entire body heated up in complete and total anxiety. She was on the brink of a panic attack. Had that just happened? Was she having a nightmare? She looked to Chris—he was staring at her, jaw slacked and eyes wide in shock. No, this was all too real. She had really just said that.

"_What?_ You slept with Phil?"

"That explains a lot," Jon piped up from the corner. Hannah felt like she would be sick. She couldn't believe she had just let that slip, and in front of _him_ no less. How in the world had she let that slip?

"I think it's time for me to go." She jumped up from her seat and practically ran back into the apartment. "Kaitlyn," she started—but the Divas Champion was positively knocked out on the couch.

"Yeah, she's down for the count," AJ proclaimed, not taking her eyes off the television screen. "I don't think we're going home tonight."

A sigh of pure exasperation escaped Hannah's lips; no, they definitely weren't going home. Neither she nor AJ were in any condition to drive, and even if Kaitlyn had been awake she probably wasn't, either. This night had gone from enjoyable to an absolute horror show in 0.2 seconds flat.

"I'll sleep on the loveseat," AJ shrugged. "I don't mind."

"You can have my bed, Hannah," Chris offered as he returned from the balcony. His eyes were soft, sympathetic; she knew he wouldn't push her to talk about what had happened between her and Phil. Hopefully he wouldn't tell anyone, either.

He went back to his bedroom, and Hannah crossed her arms over herself. She still couldn't believe she had said that. Had she really had that much to drink? And Lord, _Jon_ had been there to hear it. Now he knew who the "moron" was that she had been crying over. It made it that much more embarrassing.

"You okay?"

She broke out of her thoughts to look up at AJ. She nodded and faked a tired smile. "Yeah, just drank too much."

Chris returned from his room; and judging by the look on his face there was something wrong. "Well, unless you don't mind sleeping on top of Bo it looks like we're both sleeping on the floor. He's passed out on my bed."

"Can't you just move him?" AJ asked.

"I tried—he's sleeping like the dead. Plus he was this close to getting sick earlier. I don't want to try to move him and risk him puking all over my stuff."

"You can crash at my place." They all looked back at Jon as he spoke up. Hannah hadn't even realized he had come inside. "I just live a couple buildings over."

"Oh yeah," Chris realized. He shrugged at Hannah. "At least then you won't have to sleep on the floor."

Hannah bit her lip. There was no point in turning Jon down—he was offering her a place to sleep when he didn't have to, and besides it would be unbelievably rude to refuse. But at the same time she barely knew him, and apparently she was a lot more drunk than she had realized.

But everyone was staring at her, waiting for a response. "If it wouldn't be a problem."

Jon smirked, clearly amused by the uneasiness of her answer. "Not at all, boss."

He went to the door, and after gathering her things and saying goodbye to AJ and giving Chris a hug—"Don't worry about it," he had whispered to her—Hannah followed Jon out into the night. She trailed behind him down the stairs to the sidewalk and through the parking lot to the other side of the complex. His stride was much longer than hers, and every now and again she would have to jog to catch up with him. It was better, at least, than if he had tried to talk about her revelation back on the balcony. Maybe he was waiting until they got inside to bring it up. She sure as hell hoped not.

It didn't take but five minutes to get to his apartment. They climbed the stairs to the third floor, and he stopped in front of the second door on the right. He looked back at her once he had opened the door. "Ladies first."

Nervously she stepped forward and through the threshhold of his living space. It was surprisingly well-kept. There wasn't much to look at—the furniture was simple and the walls were nearly bare—but what was there was clean. Even more surprising was the complete lack of any trace of his foul smoking habit; she had expected it would reek of cigarettes, but it didn't at all. You wouldn't have even known he was a smoker. Hannah didn't know what she had expected to find inside Dean Ambrose's apartment, but it certainly wasn't this. This was _normal_, for lack of a better term.

"The bedroom's back here," he said as he walked past her. She followed behind him again; the layout of his apartment was exactly the same as Chris's, only flipped. They got to his room, and once again it was fairly clean save for a few clothes on the floor. He picked them up and tossed them into a hamper. Hannah stood awkwardly just inside the doorway.

"Would you like something to sleep in?" he asked her.

"Oh yeah," she nodded. She hadn't even thought of that, but she certainly didn't want to sleep in her clothes—or her undergarments. "Thanks."

He dug through his drawers and pulled out a pair of gray basketball shorts and a black t-shirt. He set them on the end of his bed. "The shorts have a drawstring, so you should be able to get them to fit," he said.

Hannah just nodded. She didn't know what else to do.

"Well," he rubbed his hands together, "I'll let you get changed."

He left and closed the door. Hannah took a deep breath. Never in a million years would she have guessed she would be here, in Dean Ambrose's bedroom. The only way it could have possibly been any stranger would be if she wasn't alone.

She set her things down on a chair and started to get changed. The shorts were definitely roomy; she had to pull the drawstring into a tight knot to keep them up. As for the shirt, it was like a dress on her. She couldn't help her smile when she saw it, though—it was an old Chikara shirt. She had one of her own back home.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in," she said. Her pulse started up again. Here she was, in his bedroom, wearing his clothes. It was so personal. _Too_ personal.

"You should probably drink some water." He held up a glass of water and set it on his desk. "I don't know if you get hangovers, but it'll help."

Hannah laughed shortly in spite of herself. "I get them pretty bad, actually. No matter how little I drink."

Silence fell between them. His eyes were scanning over her body, taking in the sight of her in his shorts and shirt. Her heart was pounding.

"So you and CM Punk, huh?"

That broke the tension. She rolled her eyes. "It was a long time ago."

"Well considering how it's still bothering you it couldn't have been that long ago."

She crossed her arms over her chest and fidgeted in her spot. Why in the world was he trying to play therapist? "I just haven't talked him since everything happened, so working with him now is... difficult."

Forget that he was playing therapist—she was opening up to him again, telling him things she would normally only tell her flesh and blood. Could she blame it on the alcohol now? Possibly. But Hannah honestly wasn't sure that was the reason. Dean Ambrose—Jon—had a way with her that she didn't understand. Was it because he was so misunderstood? Did she feel misunderstood herself? For years she had spent so much time alone, traveling, working, keeping everyone at arm's length. They shared that quality. Was that what it was? Did she want to subconsciously connect with someone who was just like her, someone who understood? But how similar could they really be? It was a frightening thought, and certainly not one she was prepared to tackle right now.

"He's the moron from back in Phoenix," Jon said. It wasn't a question. Hannah nodded.

"Yeah. I don't know, he said he regretted—"

_No._ She stopped herself right there. She was not having this conversation. She was drunk.

"No, I'm not talking to you about this," she said as she shook her head. "I didn't mean for that to come out back there. I never wanted anyone to know, and I definitely don't want to talk about it with you. I just want to pretend it never happened."

Her voice started to crack as she fought back the tears pricking at the back of her eyes. She was angry with herself. Why was she such an emotional wreck when it came to Phil? It made her feel like a fool. An absolutely pathetic fool.

"Damn," Jon proclaimed. "He did a number on you, didn't he?"

She let out a wry laugh. "Yeah, I guess so."

She couldn't look at him. She felt like such an idiot, and she could only imagine how weak and stupid she looked at that moment. She wished he would just leave, and she looked up with the intention of telling him just that—but when she did she saw that he was moving closer. He stopped mere inches from her, and the next thing she knew his lips were on hers.

Hannah inhaled a breath through her nose. She was absolutely stunned. His hands moved to her face, pulling their bodies together, closer than they had been at the party. She didn't stop him. His lips were soft, but the kiss less so. It was hungry, but not forceful; rough, but still tender. Maybe it was the alcohol, but in that moment she thoroughly enjoyed it.

Her palms slid up his chest, but before they could wind their way around the back of his neck he ended it. Ever so lightly, he nipped at her bottom lip as he pulled away. It left Hannah in near agony.

He leaned his forehead against hers; she was trying to catch her breath. She was hyper aware of his body. She was hot.

"Forget about him." His voice was gravelly, low. It turned her on. "He's a fucking punk."

Hannah could barely breathe, so she certainly couldn't talk. Her lips were parted, her thoughts still lingering on the kiss he had stolen, and before she could even begin to collect herself he stepped back. Her hands fell to her sides, and as he pulled away he ran his thumb over her bottom lip. She quivered. He smirked.

"Goodnight, Hannah."

He walked out and shut the door behind him. Hannah dropped down onto the bed. If his mission had been to make her go to bed thinking about someone other than Phil, well then mission fucking accomplished.


	8. What Happens When You Assume

_Thank you for the OVERWHELMING and AMAZING response to the last chapter. You all are fab. I knew you would like it. I think you'll like this one too :)_

_As always, leave some love at the end :)_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but Hannah and the plot._

**Chapter Eight**

_Feb. 7, 2013  
Dean Ambrose's Apartment  
Tampa, Florida_

Hannah's head was swimming. It didn't matter what kind of liquor it was or how much of it she consumed, the next day she would always wake up with a pounding headache. She rolled over onto her stomach, burying her head under the covers and hoping to fall back asleep; and then she remembered where she was.

Dean's apartment. In his clothes. In his bed. Or was it _Jon's_ bed? Were they on a real-name basis now? She didn't know that she was entirely comfortable with calling him by his real name just yet. That was something designated for friends, for people she knew outside of their gimmicks, and she was neither his friend nor familiar with who he really was. But maybe that was the first step to getting to know him—calling him Jon.

She burrowed her nose into the folds of the sheets and couldn't help but inhale their scent. They smelled like him, like that scent he always wore. She had smelled it last night when he kissed her. It smelled good, the way she liked a man to smell, pleasant but not overpowering. God, if it was Old Spice…

Something rustled from across the room. Hannah froze, listening the way a deer would for its hunter. It happened again. Cautiously she peered over the edge of the blanket—and when she spotted the source of the noise she immediately ducked back under the covers. It was Jon, and he was wearing nothing but a pair of boxer-briefs.

Her heart sped up out of sheer nervousness. What should she do? Pretend to be asleep? But she wanted to know what he was doing, not to mention why he was half naked.

She pulled back the covers just enough so she could see him with one eye. He was looking through his dresser drawer and his light brown hair was wet; he had obviously just taken a shower. Hannah relaxed, but her pulse didn't slow. She was studying the muscles in his back, in his arms. He had nice arms. She had a weakness for nice arms.

"See something you like?"

Her eyes snapped shut. Blood rushed to her cheeks. Maybe if she just pretended to be asleep he would go away.

"I know you're awake, Hannah."

_Shit._

She opened her eyes again. He was smirking at her as he pulled on a pair of jeans. She may have been caught, but she wasn't coming out from underneath the covers until the blush drained from her face.

"How long have you been watching me?" he asked. "Did you see me naked? Should I feel violated?"

Her cheeks burned even hotter. "_No_." As if he would have actually felt _violated_, anyway. "What time is it?"

"Just after 10." He started going through his closet, she presumed looking for a shirt. "How bad's the hangover?"

Hannah's response was an uncomfortable groan as she rolled onto her back. On a scale of one to ten it was probably about a four. Fairly mild, but enough to make her want to stay in bed a little longer. She just wished it wasn't _his_ bed.

"You should have drunk the water," he returned.

She scoffed quietly to herself. Yeah, she should have drunk the water. She _would_ have if something else hadn't completely distracted her. "Yeah, well I kind of _forgot _about it."

She didn't need to see him to know that he was smirking. She was sure he was just pleased as punch.

"Why did you kiss me?" The question came tumbling out of her mouth without much forethought; it was just the natural thing to ask. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him studying her, but she didn't turn her head to look at him. She just wanted to hear his reason.

"Because I wanted to."

That was it, bluntly honest and to the point. She should have guessed as much from him.

But was that really _it?_ There was a part of her, albeit a very small part, that wondered if there was more to his motive. His answer seemed simple enough on the surface—he had wanted to kiss her, so he did—but if that was _it_, if it had really been nothing more than carnal desire, why hadn't he tried to take it further? It certainly seemed like he could have. She had kissed him back, and furthermore she had been drunk and emotional—and she doubted Jon was above taking advantage of a drunk, emotional girl, much less one that was already so conveniently in his bedroom. So why had he walked away after just a kiss?

But Hannah wasn't stupid. She knew better than to ask him that outright.

"Why'd you kiss me back?"

His question sliced through her pondering like a blade. She turned her gaze to meet his, a ghost of a smirk forming on her lips. There was no point in lying. "Because I wanted to."

He mimicked her expression, and after pulling on his shirt he exited the room. Hannah was left with her thoughts once again.

She had allowed him to kiss her last night, and, at least at the moment, she would probably allow him to do it again.

* * *

_Feb. 11, 2013  
Monday Night Raw  
Bridgestone Arena – Nashville, Tennessee_

Despite the events of the previous week, Hannah was doing her best to go about business as usual. She and Jon had spoken no more of their intimate moment and he was acting no different toward her than he always had. He was still just as quiet, just as focused and just as mysterious as ever. But there was one noticeable difference: Hannah didn't find him nearly as menacing as she once had. That kiss four nights ago had shattered every perception she had ever had of him and destroyed all the hearsay the locker room had fed her about his sanity. Jon wasn't insane. But that was about all she _had_ figured out about him.

There was a new fear she had developed, however, and she was reminded of it every time she saw Phil.

The morning after Hannah had let the secret slip about her romp with Phil she had returned to Chris's place to give him an explanation; she felt like she owed him at least part of one if only to keep him from asking questions later. So she had told him the how and when and thankfully he had been content to leave it at that. Chris wasn't a nosy person, and furthermore he was a good friend. She had asked him not to bring it up to anyone else and she was confident he wouldn't.

Jon, however, she wasn't so certain would keep his mouth shut.

But she was doing her best to push the issue out of her mind. There was no sense in worrying about something she wasn't even sure would happen; she would cross that bridge when and if she came to it.

So, again—it was business as usual, and right now her business involved composing a reply to an email John Laurinaitis had sent about a prospective new talent. She couldn't believe it, but they actually seemed to be in agreement for once. Feeling pleased, she finished up the email and hit "send"; and just as she did her favorite fiancé turned up.

"So, Hannah… tonight's the big night."

Hannah cocked an eyebrow at his smirk; she honestly had no idea what he was talking about. But then she had an absolutely horrifying thought. "Oh my God. Is there going to be a wedding tonight?"

His grin widened, but much to her relief he shook his head. Thank God. She had better be given a 48-hour notice _at the least_ if she and Brad were scheduled to be married.

"No, not quite. But I _will_ finally get to kiss my beautiful, conniving fiancée."

Her expression went blank. That was just as bad as a wedding.

"So I was thinking," Brad went on, "maybe we should practice. You know, just so we aren't going in completely blind. It would help with our chemistry; I don't think either of us want it to look awkward."

Hannah bit down on her jaw as she stared at him. If she hadn't already been sure that Brad Maddox was the most tactless sleaze in all the WWE she was absolutely positive of it now. _Maybe we should practice?_ Dean Ambrose had more game than him.

She was seconds away from viciously shooting him down when, wouldn't you know it, Phil stopped her short. More accurately, his appearance stopped her. There he was just a few yards away talking to Justin Roberts, and for a very brief second their eyes met. Hannah recalled the conversation that had occurred on Chris's balcony, what he had said to her just before she spilled the beans: Phil seemed strangely jealous of her "engagement" to Brad. Ever since that night Hannah had been wondering if there was any validity to the claim.

Well, in the form of the most thoughtless pick-up line imaginable, the odds had given her a surefire way to find out.

She turned her eyes back to Brad, and where there had previously been a stone cold glare was now an impish grin. "You want to practice?"

"Well, I just…"

Hannah didn't allow him to finish. She grabbed his tie and tugged him toward her and pressed her lips against his. At first Brad seemed entirely caught off-guard, but that didn't last for long; she slid her tongue along his bottom lip and he was more than willing to deepen the kiss. She wrapped her arms around his neck, threading her fingers through his hair—and, whether she meant to or not, elicited a breathy moan into his mouth. It was a damn good kiss.

They broke apart, finally. Hannah was smirking, perfectly satisfied with the display they had put on; but Brad looked quite confused, if not a bit a stunned.

"Did I miss something?"

Coyly she bit her lip as she smoothed out his tie. "I just don't like to half-ass anything." Just over his shoulder she could see absolutely everyone in the vicinity staring on in shock. Well, everyone except for Phil—he rather looked like he was trying to blow someone up with his mind. She smiled again. "See you later."

For once in his life Brad didn't have a thing to say, and Hannah went on her merry little way. But as soon as she rounded a corner into a deserted corridor she dropped the smiling façade and muttered lowly to herself.

"AJ will have nothing on me if I keep on at this rate."

* * *

"Babe, are you sure you're feeling okay? Do you want something to drink? Maybe you should sit down."

Hannah was fretting over her fiancé with worry painted across her features—volatile boos could be heard emanating from the arena, but she ignored them. It was the first time Brad had been seen since Brock Lesnar had ambushed him in the parking lot, attacking him with the very same maneuver that had put her father in the hospital. Sure, Vince was a lot older and frailer than Brad but she was concerned for his well being nonetheless. He _had _been F-5'd onto the hood of a car, after all.

"Hannah, Hannah," Brad appeased her. "I'm fine. Relax."

Hannah expelled an anxious breath. "I know, I'm sorry. I've just been completely freaked out ever since that _monster_ Brock Lesnar showed up. What was Vickie thinking re-signing him? He can't be controlled! You saw, Heyman couldn't even control him! I'm concerned for my safety. He almost F-5'd _me_ out there, Brad. Can you imagine if that had happened to _me?_"

"Hey, hey; come on." Brad took her by the hips and pulled her securely into him. She was nearly hyperventilating. "You know I would never let anything like that happen to you."

Hannah was still looking up at him with a nervous, furrowed brow. But she nodded nevertheless. "I know."

"Good."

He placed a tender kiss on her lips, and afterward Hannah finally seemed to relax—but then Brad abruptly switched gears.

"So, because you know I have _your_ best interests in mind, and I know you have _my_ best interests in mind, I was hoping that _maybe_ you could pull some of those McMahon power-strings of yours and get me a match at Elimination Chamber."

Hannah's expression went from soothed to utterly annoyed when she heard that. "You're kidding right?" she charged. Brad opened his mouth to defend himself but she quickly and firmly silenced him. "I have more important things to deal with right now, Brad. I was almost _fired_ two weeks ago, and I have _no_ idea what my father is going to do once he finally gets out of the hospital. On top of that, for all I know I'm next on Brock Lesnar's list; he could be lurking out there right now just waiting to F-5 me. And to top it _all_ off I have to worry about The Shield going up against John Cena, Ryback and that pasty ginger Sheamus at Elimination Chamber. If The Shield loses that match there will be repercussions for _both_ of us."

Brad pinched the bridge of his nose. This clearly wasn't how he had hoped this conversation would go. "Hannah, I know you have a lot on your plate right now. I do. But, I'm your _fiancé._ You _promised_ you would get me a contract and… so far you haven't delivered, babe. You want me to succeed, don't you?"

Hannah's eyes narrowed dangerously at him. How _dare_ he. Had he completely forgotten who he was talking to? Did he have a death wish? "It's not _my_ fault you don't have a contract, Brad. How many opportunities were you given? And you _failed_ every single time. That's your own damn fault. Right now the only thing you should be worried about is Vince McMahon, because if _I _get fired you're good as gone, too. You haven't given him any reason to keep you around."

That quieted him—for a second, anyway. "Well that's exactly why I need a match at Elimination Chamber, Hannah. I can prove—"

He was interrupted when someone invited himself into the room. CM Punk. Hannah's glare immediately transferred from her fiancé to the former WWE Champion; and it became even stonier than it had been previously.

"Um, I'm sorry; what makes you think you can just walk in here like that? This is our _private_ dressing room."

Punk folded his arms in front of his chest. He clearly didn't give a damn about their "privacy." "Oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting something _private?_ That's news to me; I always figured Brad here was about as anatomically equipped as a Ken doll."

In the distance the fans "ooo'd" at the insult. But Hannah was quick to come back with a biting one of her own.

"Oh no; he's perfectly well-_equipped_. Better than you, I'm sure."

That hit a nerve—a _personal_ nerve. Hannah could tell by the way his eyes bulged in anger. It made her smirk.

"Okay, Hannah," he went on, "I didn't come in here to have a discussion about what's in your little boyfriend's pants. I came in here to have a discussion about Paul Heyman."

Hannah scoffed to herself. She had and wanted _nothing_ to do with Paul Heyman anymore. "You mean that coward you call a manager? You should have just let him quit tonight. He's a waste of skin and space."

"Well I didn't let him quit," Punk shot back. "I didn't let him quit because I owe my career to Paul Heyman, and it was my duty as his friend to keep him from unjustly walking away from _his _career, a career he's sacrificed everything for, a career he lives, sleeps and breathes, because of someone as selfish and spoon-fed as _you_."

Hannah's eyebrows arched. "_Selfish?_" she questioned. She couldn't believe her ears. "_You're_ calling _me_ selfish? I work tirelessly day in and day out for _everyone else_ in this company. I'm the best talent agent this company has. I've dedicated the last six years of my life to seeking out the hardest working most _deserving_ wrestlers in the world and making all their dreams come true. I'm wrestling's fairy godmother, and you're calling me _selfish?_ It's people like _you_ that I fight for, Punk. You know that; we've talked about it. Or have you forgotten? Remember the summer of 2011, back when you were on the brink of leaving WWE because you were so furious with how the company was run, with how people were being rewarded based on how much they kissed my father's ass rather than for their credentials? We both want the same thing, Punk. _Change_. I contracted The Shield to help _you_, and you have the nerve to come in here and call me _selfish_."

The argument seemed airtight, and for all intents and purposes it was. But Hannah wasn't just addressing anyone. She was addressing CM Punk.

"Yeah, I am calling you selfish," he said. "Because you, and your dumb fiancé and The Shield haven't been 'helping' anyone but yourselves. This whole time you've been pushing your own agenda to get his name out there," he jabbed a finger at Brad, "and The Shield's name out there, and your own name out there. And in the process you've drug the names of honest men like Paul Heyman and myself through the mud.

"Oh, and by the way—I never _asked_ for any help. I don't _need_ any help. I'm the _Best in the World_. But because these dumb, mindless fans believe absolutely everything they hear and see they think Paul and myself were somehow in cahoots with you, and because of that Paul was nearly pushed to quit tonight. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"Oh really," a smug smirk appeared on Hannah's lips as she crossed her arms. "You don't need any help? Then why did Heyman just ask my dad to add the stipulation to your match that The Rock can lose the WWE Title via count out or disqualification? Afraid you won't be able to beat him via pinfall?"

"Because I was _robbed_, that's why," Punk shot back. "The Rock is a thief and that stipulation is his due punishment. At least Vince had the _brains_ to see that."

Hannah's face fell. He was treading dangerous water now; _no one_ insulted her intelligence.

"Stop spreading your lies about Paul and me, Hannah," he went on. "You and your goons keep your noses out of my match on Sunday."

Having said his piece, Punk gave them both one last glare and exited the room. Hannah looked like she had murder on the brain.

"_I'm_ lying? He and Heyman are the ones who are lying," she muttered.

Brad's thoughts, on the other hand, were on himself. "Forget that—_me_ as anatomically equipped as a Ken doll? Has he _seen_ my Twitter profile picture?"

Hannah expelled a sigh as she rolled her eyes. "Shut up, Brad."

There was a pause, and then the production manager said, "Cut. Thanks guys, that was great." He, along with the cameraman and the sound technician, filed their way out of the room. As soon as they had gone Hannah quirked an eyebrow at Brad.

"'Has he seen my Twitter profile picture?'" she quoted.

Brad nodded at her, clearly proud of himself for having come up with that one. "Clever, right?"

She couldn't help her laugh. It _was_ clever, considering he was wearing next to nothing in his current Twitter profile picture, but she certainly wasn't going to admit that. "You're ridiculous."

"Coming from you I'll take that as a compliment. I do believe we've bonded today, Hannah."

She patted his shoulder. "Right. Well, I'm going to catering; I haven't eaten yet and I'm starving."

She started for the door but as soon as she reached for the handle it abruptly opened, nearly knocking into her. It was Phil. Again.

"I need to talk to you." It was a blunt and firm request. Oh, how the tables had turned.

"Okay… about what?"

There was no reason at all for her to ask that. Hannah knew exactly what it was he wanted to talk about, but it was just a little too much fun making him work for it.

Phil, however, didn't answer the question. "Alone," he insisted.

Hannah glanced back at Brad. Deliberately he raised his shoulders to his ears. "Anything you have to say to my fiancée you can say in front of me."

Phil's eyes fixed on him. He was _not_ in the mood for games. "Get out."

It was crystal clear by his tone of voice that if Brad didn't leave himself Phil would _put_ him out. Brad didn't need to be told twice. He gave Hannah a curious look and scooted past Phil out the door. Phil watched after him as he went, and then he shut Hannah and himself inside the room. He wasted no time.

"So what was all that, Hannah? Hm? What was that show you two put on earlier in the night? What was that comment you made just now? Do you know for a fact that Brad is 'better equipped' than I am? Is that what's going on?"

Hannah couldn't believe it. Chris had been right: Phil was 100%, absolutely jealous of Brad. Phil Brooks was _jealous_. She would have never believed it if she hadn't seen it right there in front of her; and honestly, it made her happy.

"Well," she started, "first of all, you set yourself up for that comment. And second of all, no, Brad and I aren't a 'thing' if that's what you're implying. But, even if we were what would _you_ care? Do you have a problem with me being with someone else?"

Up until that point Phil had been staring irritably down at her, his olive eyes hard and full of anger. But there was a pause, and then his eyebrows shot up on his forehead and he _laughed_.

"Oh wait, I see what's going on here. You think I'm _jealous _don't you? You do. Well, Hannah, sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not." He shook his head. "No, I'm not jealous, and if what you're doing is trying to _make_ me jealous or get my attention by flaunting this 'relationship' of yours in front of my face—_stop_. Or if you're just seeking whatever kind of attention you can get because what I did to you has made you insecure—_stop_. _I _was the one who fucked up, so _stop_. You're better than that."

His diatribe chopped her at the knees. She was completely taken aback, stuck between whether to feel insulted or humbled, angry or foolish—and, at the moment, the latter dominated by a landslide. Phil had pinned her down and put her in her place, and she felt like an absolute fool.

"Just stop," he said again, his voice softer now. "That's not the Hannah I know. Or the one I care about."

With those words, and an undeniable anguish in his eyes, he left. Hannah stood alone in the middle of the room with absolutely no clue where to go from there.

She was in shock. She was hurt. But most of all she felt like a complete and utter fool.


	9. Just Don't Leave Any Teeth Marks

_Update time! __Sorry for the relative delay; I was in Phoenix for the majority of last week, which is clear across the country from where I live in Virginia, and I was unable to put in any good time writing until Friday. But here's a nice long one for you... and I think you'll like it ;) Or want to kill me :x_

_As always, thanks to everyone who has read/reviewed/followed/subscribed. This story is constantly getting loved and it makes me happy. You all rock. Please leave some more love once you reach the end of this chapter!_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but Hannah and the plot._

**Chapter Nine**

_Feb. 16, 2013  
Hyatt Regency New Orleans  
New Orleans, Louisiana_

All throughout her life, whenever Hannah came up against something she just didn't want to deal with she had one defense mechanism: Complete immersion in absolutely anything else.

In high school and college she would dance. Turn on the music and run the routines she had learned in class over and over again until her limbs were sore. She had won many an award in competition thanks to stress. Now, of course, she would consume herself with work. Sequester herself with her computer and relentlessly scour the Internet for the next big thing, seek out the upcoming independent shows and determine which ones were worth her time and which ones weren't. She would occupy her mind so thoroughly that there wasn't any room or time left to think about anything else at all—and that was precisely what she had been doing ever since her abrasive exchange with Phil that past Monday night. If it wasn't work, she didn't want anything to do with it.

But no matter how hard she tried to distract herself, every now and again she couldn't help but think about it.

She had run the gamut of emotions since that night. She had gone from feeling stupid to angry, angry to bitter, bitter to hurt, hurt to dejected and dejected right back to stupid. And it was all because of _Phil_. Had it been anyone else to say those things to her she would have exploded, smacked them into next week and stood her ground. But not Phil. Hannah cared what Phil thought. When he spoke, she listened. His opinion mattered to her, it held weight with her; and in this case especially, she knew he was right.

He wasn't right about the reason she had kissed Brad, but that was a moot point. No, what he was right about was something she had been trying to overcome for years: Her insecurity.

Her insecurity was _his _fault. Phil knew it was his fault—he had owned up to it. But as much as she wanted to Hannah couldn't rightly put all the blame on him; it wasn't only him who had caused her to become so insecure. It was every boyfriend she had ever had, every guy who had ever used her to try to get tickets to WrestleMania or been with her only because of her last name. It was _all_ of them who had done this to her. Granted, Phil was the worst of the bunch, not because of the severity of what he had done, but because what they had shared had been the most genuine thing she had ever experienced. The harder you fall, the worse you hurt.

But even so, Hannah still couldn't put _all_ the blame on everyone else. She was at fault herself. She didn't _need_ to allow her past experiences to affect her so, but yet she couldn't overcome them. It angered her. In every other area of her life she was strong, resourceful, persevering. But when it came to love, when it came to allowing anyone to intimately enter her life she was weak, crippled, _insecure_.

It was something she _loathed_ about herself; and now Phil had recognized it too. It made her want to retreat like a turtle would into its shell and never come out again. Perhaps Paul was right. Perhaps she was doomed to become a cat lady, after all.

But at this point Hannah was absolutely over it all. She had arrived in New Orleans just a few hours ago, and having grabbed a late dinner with Paul and Stephanie she planned to spend the rest of her night watching TV in her hotel room. A good chunk of the Superstars, Divas and WWE crew were already in the Big Easy and no doubt enjoying a Saturday night out in the French Quarter, but Hannah had declined Colby's invitation to tag along with him and Roman and a few others. Her pajamas were calling her name.

She had just arrived at her room when the adjacent door opened and someone walked out into the hall. She wouldn't have paid them any mind had it not been for who it was: Jon.

"Well, well, well." The corner of his mouth quirked up in his usual odd smirk as his eyes landed on her. "Hey there, neighbor."

Hannah was rather taken aback by his appearance—he looked so much different in his street clothes from how he did in the black combat gear he wore at the shows. He was just in jeans, a t-shirt and a black hoodie with a ball cap on his head; nothing unusual or noteworthy, but it changed his impression drastically. He actually looked _approachable_. It was rather odd.

"Going somewhere?" she asked. "Why aren't you out with Colby and Roman?"

He stuck his hands in his pants pockets as he leaned a shoulder against the wall. "Didn't feel like it. I think I might just go drink by myself down at the bar."

That made Hannah frown. She knew Jon was a lone wolf—and he seemed to prefer it that way—but the thought of him sitting alone drinking all by himself saddened her. It was no secret that he was completely misunderstood backstage; many of the Superstars and Divas thought he was at best a weirdo and at worst a freak. But Hannah knew better. She certainly didn't want to perpetuate the misjudgment.

"Do you watch _The Walking Dead_?"

His brow creased at her complete change in subject. "Duh," he answered as if it was the dumbest thing she could have possibly asked him. "I haven't watched the newest episode yet, though."

"Well what do you know, neither have I. I was just about to. You can join me, if you want. I think it's a little better than drinking by yourself."

His blue eyes fixed on her. They were completely unreadable. When after a few seconds he still hadn't said anything she had to interrupt the silence.

"What, afraid I might bite?"

Slowly but surely Jon's lips curled into a mischievous grin. "I don't think you want me to answer that."

Hannah's cheeks burned a bright shade of pink. She had walked right into that one.

"Sure," he answered, his smirk still in place. "I'll watch _The Walking Dead_ with you."

She gave him a smile, albeit still somewhat embarrassed. "Alright. I'm sure we can have room service deliver drinks. It is New Orleans, after all."

* * *

"So if you were bitten by a zombie on a part of your body that could be amputated in order to save your life, would you cut off the limb or ask to be killed? Or kill yourself, I guess."

Hannah glanced over at Jon, curious to hear his answer. She thought she already knew what he would say, but then he threw her a curveball.

"You forgot an option."

Her brow creased in curiosity. "What?"

"Turn into a zombie."

"What?" That seemed completely ridiculous to Hannah. "You would _choose_ that option?"

"Maybe, if there was no means of amputating the infected limb and I hated the people I was with," he responded. "If I was with anyone at all, that is."

"Fine," she conceded. "You're with me. You're bitten on the arm. What do you do?"

He didn't hesitate. "Cut off my arm."

Hannah felt the blush creeping back into her cheeks as his eyes gazed into hers. She took another sip of her wine.

He turned the question on her. "What about you?"

"Oh, I'd cut off my arm, definitely," she answered. "Then I could mount a weapon to it, like Merle. I could have a giant knife for an arm and be a zombie-killing machine."

That playful smirk returned to Jon's face. "Well no wonder Punk likes you," he said. It left a sour taste in Hannah's mouth.

"Yeah, well he's the reason I even got into the show in the first place. And you mean _liked _me."

"No," Jon abruptly returned. "I watched your segment with him on Raw. I saw the look on his face when you alluded to Brad's dick being bigger than his. If he didn't care about you he wouldn't have given a shit, probably would have made a joke about you being a slut. But he didn't like that very much, did he?"

Hannah's expression turned stony. Why did he have to be so fucking _brash _about everything? "You just don't know the meaning of the word 'tact,' do you?" she charged. But his grin only grew wider.

"Oh I know the meaning. I just don't give a shit."

She chose to keep her mouth shut on that one and just take another drink of wine.

"You haven't gotten laid since him, have you?"

Hannah nearly choked when she heard that. "_Excuse_ me?"

"I don't think you have," he went on. "If you had been with anyone else since him you wouldn't be nearly as upset about whatever it is that happened between you two. Especially if someone had given it to you good."

That was it; Hannah drew the line there. It was time for Jon to go. This wasn't a topic she wanted to discuss with him, and there was a suggestive note to his tone that made her uncomfortable. It made her heart race. It made her think about that kiss.

"Well, it's getting pretty late." She set her glass on the end table and stood, crossing her arms in front of her. "You should probably go."

Jon didn't argue with her. Slowly he rose from his seat and walked over to her. He came closer and closer until he was only inches away, towering over her. The scent of his cologne found her nose. She had to swallow a lump in a throat.

He looked her right in the eye, that all too familiar smirk playing on his lips. "Goodnight, Hannah."

It was all he said before he left, but it was more than enough to get her pulse going.

It was more than enough to get her thinking about what it would be like to be with him.

* * *

_Feb. 17, 2013  
WWE Elimination Chamber  
New Orleans Arena – New Orleans, Louisiana_

"I think the message that's being sent to The Shield is what're you gonna do when the odds are even?"

Hannah glared down the length of the announce table at Jerry "The King" Lawler. She had come out to a chorus of boos to sit ringside for The Shield's match against Ryback, Sheamus and John Cena, and she sure as hell wasn't going to let some washed up old man talk bad about Rollins, Reigns and Ambrose. "It doesn't matter what the odds are, Jerry. The Shield is an unstoppable force. It could be any combination of Superstars past _or_ present in that ring right now, and The Shield would come out victorious."

"Well I don't know about that," King returned. "You want to put your money where your mouth is?"

"Oh please, you wouldn't be able to bet against me. I'm probably wearing more money on my finger right now than you have in your entire bank account."

"You mean that ugly thing Brad Maddox bought you? That thing's probably about as real as his referee license."

"Can we pay attention to the match, please?" Michael Cole interrupted their bickering; but Hannah just used it to build onto her insults.

"Yeah, do your job and call the match, King, instead of making asinine comments to your guest."

"I'd listen to her," JBL added on. "She is the boss's daughter."

"Yeah, and daddy almost fired her!" King retorted—but all of their attention was suddenly drawn to the action in the ring. Sheamus had Ambrose hung up on the ropes and was delivering his signature series of forearm clubs to the chest as the thousands of fans in the arena counted them off in unison. He only got to three, however, before he decided to unzip the protective vest Ambrose was wearing, pull up his shirt and start over again. The clubbing continued sickening smack after smack until Ambrose collapsed at ringside.

Sheamus jumped out and tossed him back inside the ring, but before he could roll in after him big Roman Reigns stared him down, silently threatening him. The distraction was enough—when Sheamus climbed up onto the ring apron Ambrose kicked him square in the temple and sent him falling to the floor.

"That's what I'm talking about, the cohesion of a team," JBL lauded as Ambrose tagged in Reigns.

"This is the most cohesive team in the history of the WWE," Hannah added.

"Well, they've certainly worked well together," Cole agreed. "Whether it's been fairly or not is up for debate—and Reigns nearly beheaded Sheamus with that clothesline!"

"What did I tell you?" Hannah smugly stated. "Unstoppable force."

Reigns put the boots to Sheamus inside the ring, and The Shield held him defenseless in their corner. Reigns tagged in Ambrose, and there was a flurry of movement as Rollins tagged himself in and one after the other they dropkicked the Celtic Warrior against the ropes. Rollins went for the cover, but Sheamus quickly kicked out. Rollins responded by wrestling him into a chokehold on the mat. He pulled him up, however, and back into the corner where his teammates were waiting like vultures.

"Sheamus is where he does not want to be, and that is in the wrong corner," Cole stated as Rollins continued to beat him down. It wasn't long before he tagged Ambrose back in. "Dean Ambrose now," Cole went on as Ambrose delivered a series of sharp elbows to his opponent's head. "Very eccentric style of Dean Ambrose."

"He gets the job done," Hannah butted in. "He's efficient. John Cena could learn a thing or two from him."

Just as the words left her mouth the tables were suddenly turned when Sheamus hit Ambrose with a massive Brogue Kick. He fell to the mat like a collapsing tree.

"Well it looks like _he's_ learning a few things from Sheamus right now!" King chimed. Hannah ignored him.

Dean lolled around on the canvas, unsure of where he was in the ring. But he managed to tag in Reigns just as Sheamus tagged in Cena.

"And here comes Cena!" Cole proclaimed.

The crowd was a mixture of boos and cheers as Cena delivered an all too familiar series of flying shoulder blocks to Reigns. He picked him up and laid him out with a side release spinout slam, and everyone knew what was coming next. He raised his right hand high in the air in the air and positioned himself so that he could see Hannah.

"I think Cena has a message for you, Hannah!" King joyfully announced. Sure enough, Cena looked her dead in the eye, and waved his hand in front of his face in his signature "You can't see me" gesture, taunting her. He bounced off the ropes and hit Reigns with the Five Knuckle Shuffle.

"He is everything that is wrong with this company!" Hannah erupted. "He absolutely disgusts me! He thinks he can just get away with crap like that?"

"He just did!" King said.

Cena intended to set up Reigns for the Attitude Adjustment, but Rollins dove into the ring and interfered. Cena, however, quickly tossed him out and immediately tripped Reigns and locked on the STF. He didn't hold it for long, though—Ambrose broke it up, and then, in an act of revenge, Rollins hit Cena with a hard flying knee to the temple from the top rope. "The Champ" was knocked out cold in the middle of the ring, and The Shield was in control once again.

"I gotta tell ya, this is the greatest three man team this business has ever seen," JBL said as Reigns went for the pin. Cena, however, kicked out. "_Ever_."

"I'm glad _someone_ here has the brains to see that," Hannah commented; but King, of course, just had to open his stupid mouth and argue.

"Wait a minute, I would not go _that_ far."

"Who in the world can you name that's been more destructive than these three?" she shot. "Name anyone. You can't, because no one in the history of this company has been more dominate, more efficient, or more justified than Rollins, Reigns and Ambrose."

"Well they haven't even won this match yet!" King proclaimed.

"'Yet' being the operative word," Hannah countered. That argument was won.

Back in the ring, Reigns was tossing Cena around like a rag doll. He was down on the mat, exhausted, clinging to the bottom rope as if his life depended upon it. He couldn't catch a break; and, unfortunately for him, he was in The Shield's corner. Reigns tagged in Ambrose.

Dean stomped on Cena's chest, delivered a blow to his head, picked him up and kneed him in the gut. His movements were deliberate, calculated. It was like watching a snake attack its prey. Hannah couldn't pay attention to anything else. She was captivated.

"Dean Ambrose said that he believes Cena, Sheamus and Ryback are three morally empty individuals," Cole stated. "He called Cena a failure. He fails to set an example every day. He said in Cena's world—wait a minute, cover by Ambrose." Dean went for the pin, but Cena's hand was underneath the rope. Hannah took the opportunity to finish Cole's sentence for him.

"In Cena's world there are no consequences. That's not how the real world works. Cena isn't exempt from anything—he's a problem, and The Shield is going to take care of that problem."

As if on cue, from inside the ring Rollins—who had been tagged in and was continuing Ambrose's beating—shouted in Cena's face, "You're the problem!" He went for another cover attempt, but again, Cena kicked out.

The air inside the arena turned electric as Rollins continued to dominate. Half the fans chanted, "Let's go Cena!" and the other half, "Cena sucks!" Rollins stood on Cena's hand, pinning him there with nowhere to go, and tagged in Ambrose.

"Look at Ambrose, just toying with Cena," Cole said. Dean had backed him into The Shield's corner and was smacking him, taunting him, talking shit. He tagged Rollins back in but then Reigns tagged himself in, as well. After delivering a leaping elbow to Cena's jaw Rollins whipped him out of the corner and right into a massive flying clothesline from Reigns. Reigns went for the pinfall attempt, but Sheamus dove into the ring and broke up the count.

"You see, even Sheamus knows they don't stand a chance beating The Shield," Hannah commented.

"Well, The Shield certainly has remained in control for the majority of this match up," Cole conceded.

Thanks to the distraction from Sheamus, Cena was able to land a few blows on Reigns; but when he bounced off the ropes Reigns scooped him up and hit him with a Samoan Drop. He went for the cover, but somehow Cena powered out.

Reigns became frustrated. He let out a groan and pounded the mat, but was quick to get Cena into a chin lock. The taunting started again. Ambrose stuck his head through the ropes, waving at Cena with a twisted grin on his face. He was mocking him and loving every second of it.

"Look at Ambrose, toying with Cena again," Cole repeated.

"He's a master of mind games," Hannah interjected. "They call my stupid brother-in-law the Cerebral Assassin, but he has _nothing_ on Dean Ambrose."

Back in the ring Cena was fighting against the chin lock. He mustered all the strength he had left to pry Reigns's hands apart, and he had just enough energy to pick the big Samoan halfway up and drop him sloppily to the mat. Both men were down. For now, the odds were even.

"Cena's gotta make a tag," Cole stated. "Ryback _still _hasn't been in."

Both men pulled themselves to their feet—and Reigns took Cena out with yet another clothesline. There was another pinfall attempt, but Cena kicked out _again_.

"If they can find a way to defeat the 10-time WWE Champion Ryback may never get into this match," JBL said.

Reigns tagged in Ambrose, and he went to work again. He attacked him with more of those calculated blows before hitting him with a neckbreaker. He went for the cover—but Cena kicked out. Ambrose, however, didn't waste any time. He locked his legs around Cena's head in a submission maneuver, choking him. Cena, however, countered. He rolled over onto his knees and summoned all his power to stand, rising to his feet with Ambrose atop his shoulders. He ran out from under his opponent toward the ropes with the intention of rebounding off of them—but Ambrose landed on his feet and was right behind him. He kneed Cena hard in the stomach before he could make a single move. He pulled him into a front headlock and hit him with an absolutely devastating DDT. Hannah was in complete awe.

"Down goes Cena with a _wicked_ DDT!" Cole proclaimed. Ambrose rolled Cena over and hooked his leg in a pin; but _somehow_ Cena stayed alive.

Dean lost it. He pounded at the mat and cried out in anger, but then he took to stalking Cena. He watched him, waiting with that twisted grin on his face as Cena pulled himself up. Once he was back on his feet Dean bounced off the opposite ropes, his right hand balled into a fist; but the punch never connected. Cena had the wherewithal to pick Dean up and throw him over the top rope and down onto the floor below.

"This is the chance Cena needs," JBL stated.

"I don't think Ambrose knows where he's at right now!" King added.

The entire arena was fervently chanting, "Feed me more!" They wanted Ryback in the match. Cena was crawling on hands and knees toward his team's corner—and the fans got their wish when he tagged Ryback in just as Dean tagged in Rollins.

Ryback plowed through Rollins with a forearm to the face, and did the same to Ambrose when he charged at him. He tore through them one after the other, launching them both through the air via a back body drop and then throwing them on top of each other into the turnbuckle. He stalked to the opposite side of the ring, pumping his arm as the crowd continued their chant; they wanted to see his lariat that had dismantled so many Superstars before. But Ryback was suddenly ambushed by Reigns. Then all chaos broke loose.

Sheamus went in after Reigns, and when Ambrose went after him the Celtic Warrior hit him with a clothesline that sent them both flipping out of the ring. He continued the beating ringside—but then Reigns hit him with a spear to end all spears. They both went crashing through the barricade just next to the announce table. Lilian Garcia barely escaped being crushed. The fans absolutely lost it.

"Oh my God!" Cole exclaimed. "Roman Reigns just speared Sheamus into the timekeeper's area! Unbelievable spear by Roman Reigns! Sheamus may be down and out! Meanwhile Rollins and Ryback back in the ring!"

Rollins climbed to the top rope and launched himself toward Ryback—but Ryback caught him. He lifted him high above his head, but Ambrose made a quick save when he slid into the ring and punched Ryback in the gut. He went down, surrounded; and there was no around to help him.

The end looked nigh. Ryback was alone in the ring and The Shield was in their element: Three on one, ganging up on their victim. Rollins and Ambrose picked Ryback up, draping his arms over his shoulders. Reigns let out a guttural war cry—but before they could set up their patented triple powerbomb Cena, from out of nowhere, grabbed Reigns by the ankles and pulled him out of the ring.

Cena dodged into the ring after Ambrose while Ryback took out Rollins. The tables had turned once again. Cena hit Ambrose with the Attitude Adjustment and Ryback was seconds away from planting Rollins with the Shell Shocked—but then the unthinkable happened.

"A spear! A spear!" Cole shouted. Reigns had flown into the ring, and just before Ryback could hit his finisher he had plowed into him with another devastating spear.

Rollins fell right on top of Ryback and hooked his leg. They were still the two legal men. The referee fell to the mat and counted _1-2-3_. That was it. The match was over. The Shield had won.

"The Shield has done it!" Cole proclaimed. King and JBL, meanwhile, were silent, absolutely shocked at what they had just witnessed. Hannah was smug as she could possibly be.

"What did I tell you, boys?" she said with a shit-eating grin. "Maybe it's about time you start believing in The Shield."

She removed the headset from her ears and strutted past the fans. They jeered at her, shouting venomous, hateful things as she passed, but the satisfied smile never left her face. She helped Rollins to pull Ambrose down from the ring apron, but she didn't follow them toward the barricade. Instead she stopped and looked to where Cena sat in the middle of the ring. He was in a state of absolute confusion and disbelief, at a complete loss for how his team could have possibly failed. Their eyes locked, and with a taunting smirk on her lips Hannah waved her hand in front of her face. _You can't see me_. She added a wink for good measure.

Ambrose tugged on her arm, and she joined her cohorts on the other side of the barricade. They retreated toward the back, stopping to look on triumphantly toward the ring, and when the camera cut away from them they made their way back behind the stage and out of sight. Colby let out a holler of excitement.

"Hell yeah! That was fucking awesome—I landed right on top of Ryback. How'd it look, boss?"

Hannah shook her head, a giant smile on her face. She was at a loss for words. "You all stole the show. I don't think anyone expected you to win."

"We definitely need to celebrate tonight," Roman determined. He looked at Hannah and Jon both. "Neither of you came out last night, you have to go out with us now."

Everyone, including Jon, was looking at Hannah, waiting for her to say something. Her expression must have betrayed her apprehensiveness.

"Oh come on, Hannah," Colby insisted. "I know you like to go out and have a good time. Just come with us."

"Yeah," Jon added. "What, afraid we might bite?"

There was a double meaning to that snarky joke that flew right over the heads of Colby and Roman, but Hannah understood just fine. She glowered up at his smirk. No, she wasn't afraid they would bite. She wasn't afraid _he_ would bite, either.

"_No_," she returned. "I'm positive your bark is worse than your bite."

Jon's blue eyes glinted dangerously down at her. She could tell he took that as a challenge. She could tell he liked it.

She flashed them a grin. "I'll see you guys later," she said, and as she turned on her heel and sauntered off Hannah had a feeling she would get herself in trouble if she went out with Jon that night.

But the thing of it was she really didn't care.

* * *

_Bourbon Heat  
Bourbon Street, French Quarter  
New Orleans, Louisiana_

There was barely any room to breathe on the dance floor. It was dark and hot and bodies were packed together like sardines, but Hannah wasn't bothered by it. She was feeling far too good to care.

She wasn't sure how many drinks she had had at that point. Three? Four? Five or six considering the sheer size of the Hurricane she was currently drinking. Had one of them been a shot? One of them had definitely been a shot. Colby had bought them all shots, her, Roman, Jon, Kaitlyn, AJ, Daniel and Nick. She wasn't sure where the boys were but she and the Divas were out on the dance floor. She didn't know how long they had been there. At that point everything was a blur.

"I'm empty!" Kaitlyn shouted over the music. At first Hannah wasn't sure what she had said, but when she held up her cup and pouted she put two and two together.

"Get a Hurricane!" Hannah proclaimed as she took a sip of her drink—a _long_ sip. It tasted good.

"I'm going to the bar!"

"I'll come with you!" AJ said. She fanned her face with her hand. "It's too hot!"

"I'm gonna go downstairs to that courtyard!" Hannah shouted back.

Kaitlyn nodded. "Okay! We'll meet you down there!"

The three girls pushed their way out of the mass of undulating people, Kaitlyn and AJ going one way toward the bar and Hannah going the other way toward the stairwell that led back down to the first level of the club. Nick—a.k.a. Dolph Ziggler—had suggested the place, having been there before. Hannah wasn't surprised. The upper level featured neon lights, exposed brick walls and a balcony overlooking the world famous Bourbon Street, where you could toss beads to girls who flashed the goods; it really didn't matter that it wasn't Mardi Gras. The lower level had a smaller, less flashy bar and an open-air courtyard that held all the charm of the French Quarter. It was a decent little place with fairly cheap drinks. Stephanie would have never been caught dead there, but it was certainly good enough for Hannah.

The stairwell was dark and steep—probably not the safest thing for someone as drunk as she was. But she managed to make it all the way without spilling her drink and without bumping into the couple making out at the bottom. "Get a room," she muttered as she passed, but they either didn't hear or just didn't care.

She arrived in the lower bar, and Hannah still didn't see any of the people she had come with. Where the hell could they all be? This place really wasn't that big. She scanned through the dark, hoping to spot Nick's unmistakable head of bleached blonde hair in the crowd, but came up empty handed. She meandered past the bar out into the courtyard, sipping her drink the entire way, and finally she found someone: Jon, and there was a petite brunette sitting on his lap.

Hannah stopped and stared. She blinked. Was she _that_ drunk? Was that really Jon? Yes, that really was him and that really was some girl on his lap, with her arm around his neck and his hand on her thigh. She had a tramp stamp. Hannah could see it poking out above the waistband of her jeans. She reeked of ring rat. She probably would have sat on Roman's or Nick's or anyone else's lap if they had let her, but no, she was on _Jon's_ lap. Hannah took another sip of her drink. She wanted to get a better look at this girl.

She marched toward them, not sure what she would do or say but only knowing she wanted to interrupt. Jon saw her before the girl did. She came to a stop just in front of them and plastered on a smile.

"Hey, Jon." She gave the girl the once over. She was wearing way too much makeup on her tanned face and had a stud in her nose and another in her artificially plumped lip. Judging by their unnatural looks against her small frame her boobs were probably fake too. Was _this_ the type of girl he liked? He might catch something.

"Hannah," he replied, cool as a cucumber. "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing. I was just wondering have you seen Roman? I was hoping he'd take me back to the hotel…"

She trailed off, allowing the implication of her statement to die in the air. She stuck her straw in between her lips, coyly, suggestively. Jon wasn't stupid; it didn't take long for him to catch on to her game.

His eyes didn't leave Hannah's as he spoke to the girl. "Why don't you give us a minute, Brittany?"

The girl, who had been glaring cattily up at Hannah, whipped her head around at him. "It's _Whitney_," she corrected.

Ever so slightly, Jon smirked. "I really don't give a shit."

Hannah snorted into her drink. _Whitney_ gave them both one last glare before pushing herself roughly off Jon's lap and stalking off back into the bar.

"Sorry," Hannah said; but she really wasn't sorry in the slightest. "Did I ruin your plans?"

Jon took the last drag off the cigarette he had been smoking and tossed it aside. "I knew her name. I just wanted her to fuck off."

Hannah smirked to herself; she wasn't buying that for a second. "Jon, we both know that if you _really _wanted her to fuck off you wouldn't have waited until I came over to do that."

"Kind of like if you were _really _trying to fuck Roman you wouldn't have said so to me?"

Silence fell between them as Hannah's smile faded. Jon was looking up at her with a smug expression in place, all too pleased with himself. Had he been trying to make her jealous? He couldn't have been. No, she had done that all herself—and he knew it.

"Well what if I was trying to fuck him?" she said. "What if I wanted him to be the one to _give it to me good?_"

Jon stood up. His eyes were smoldering at her through the dark, intense and hard and clouded with desire, and if Hannah didn't know any better she'd think that maybe, just maybe, he'd be jealous too.

"I'd say you could do better."

The rough, gravelly tone of his voice sent her heart pounding. It excited her, and for once she didn't question why. From day one there had been an unmistakable tension between them, one that had been building ever since their first conversation in Phoenix, one that had erupted at his apartment in Tampa, one that Hannah had fallen asleep thinking about on more than one occasion and one that she had constantly second-guessed and over-analyzed. But for once she wasn't thinking about it. She was only feeling it, and there was no way she could possibly try to suppress it any longer.

"I want to go back to the hotel."

She didn't need to say any more than that—Jon knew exactly what she wanted. His lips curled into a hungry smirk, and without so much as a word he took her hand in his and led her out of the bar. Hannah was more than willing to follow. She'd worry about the consequences in the morning.


	10. Rumor Has It

_I swear, these chapters always end up being way longer than I expect. But hey, no one's complaining ;)_

_Have I told you all that you're AMAZING because you are, and particularly so for the last chapter. Sorry I killed you with the ending, but I think you'll be satisfied with this ;) I'm super excited about the turn the story is starting to take and I can't wait to see what you all think, so please review once you finish the chapter!_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but Hannah and the plot._

**Chapter Ten**

_Feb. 18, 2013  
Hyatt Regency New Orleans  
New Orleans, Louisiana_

The first thing Hannah felt was Jon's body against hers. Her back was snuggled up against his side, her head resting on the bicep of his outstretched left arm. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he slept; hear the soft sound of his breathing. He was warm, and the bed was comfortable. If she were being honest with herself she wouldn't object to staying there just like that for a while longer.

The second thing she felt was the excruciating pounding in her head. It was like a jackhammer was going away at her skull. How much had she had to drink last night? A lot, way more than she should have, but not enough to make her forget what had happened. Quite the contrary—she remembered every moment of the previous night. Every single kiss, every touch, every caress, every gasp, every heady moan that had escaped her swollen lips. He had teased her viciously and pleased her entirely. He had been gentle so she could get used to him, he had been rough when she asked for it, he had seemed to know just what to do to get her to curse and say his name and she had enjoyed every single second of it. Even now her skin tingled and her toes curled just thinking about it.

She had wanted it—there was no use denying it. Somewhere deep down she had wanted Jon, and last night she had allowed herself to have him because the alcohol had freed her from all her inhibitions about being with him. But now in the haze of the morning after, now that the alcohol had worn off she was thinking again. As good as it had been, as much as she _knew_ she had genuinely wanted it she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

She couldn't help but wonder if she had made a big mistake.

Jon stirred next to her, and the next thing Hannah knew her head unceremoniously hit the bed as he stretched both his arms into the air. Her temples throbbed harder; did he _really_ have to do that? But then, unexpectedly, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her body close against his. Her eyes fell closed. Somehow he still smelled wonderful.

"Good morning," he breathed, and her breath hitched in her throat—his lips had found that spot right behind her ear that drove her absolutely insane. Her neck was still tender from the night before but she didn't care. It felt too good. It made her forget about the pain in her head.

His fingers moved under her shirt—his shirt—and traced their way up her torso. His hand cupped her bare breast, his thumb brushing over the already erect nipple, and she couldn't help herself anymore; she maneuvered onto her back and his lips met hers. She ran her hands over the muscles in his arms and shoulders—fuck, she loved his arms—and wound her fingers into his hair. The kiss became hungrier, more passionate, and his touch roamed down to the top of her panties. She quivered underneath him, anticipating his next move, and when he pushed past the fabric and gently ran his fingers over her most sensitive spot she let out a moan—but then he suddenly stopped.

He smirked devilishly down at her. "Someone's eager."

Her expression immediately went from flustered to irritated. "You're an asshole."

That only made him grin wider, and he went right back to his ministrations. He sucked and nibbled at her neck. He pushed up her shirt and kissed his way down her stomach, leaving a trail of goose bumps along her skin. She was thinking again, wondering about the consequences, but she didn't want to stop him. He hooked his fingers in her panties and inched them down her hips, slowly—_too_ slowly. She wanted to feel him again and she didn't want to think about it.

But then her phone blared from the nightstand. It was her alarm, and suddenly she remembered there was somewhere she needed to be.

"Shit." She reached for the offending device and quickly silenced the alarm—her headache was back. "I have to get ready to go to the WrestleMania 30 press conference."

"Oh right," Jon said. "I almost forgot you were a McMahon."

Hannah laughed wryly to herself. Sometimes she forgot she was one, too.

She shimmied out from underneath him and the covers and climbed out of the bed. Jon looked up at her with those penetrating blue eyes and smirked.

"I like the way you look in my clothes."

Prior to last night a comment like that would have caused Hannah's cheeks to burn pink, but not anymore. Deliberately she pulled the shirt up and over her head and tossed it at him, leaving her topless in front of him. He drank in her svelte body as she turned and walked toward the bathroom. She stopped in the doorway and shot him a coy look over her shoulder.

"I'm taking a shower. You can join me if you want."

That was all the invitation he needed; he rolled off the bed and followed after her into the bathroom.

Hannah would worry about the consequences later.

* * *

_Monday Night Raw  
Cajundome – Lafayette, Louisiana_

"Seriously, Hannah, what is wrong with you? You've been zoning out all day."

Hannah shook her head, snapping herself to attention. She sent her sister a glare. "I told you, I didn't get any sleep last night. I stopped for one of those energy shots and it didn't do shit."

Stephanie's brows lowered at her snippy attitude. There was no mistaking the curiosity in her expression—she could tell something was up. It certainly wasn't the first time she had questioned her behavior that day. Hannah had been in her own little world at the press conference, so much so that Stephanie and Paul and even John Cena had commented on it. Stephanie had pried and prodded trying to figure out what was up, but Hannah had put up her defenses and blamed a lack of sleep; it wasn't, after all, a total lie. She _had_ barely gotten any sleep last night.

But now that her sister was staring so inquisitively at her, Hannah worried she would have no choice but to come clean with the truth about what she had been up to last night. More than that, she was completely paranoid that someone somewhere somehow _already_ knew the truth.

The possibility unsettled her. There wasn't any privacy in the WWE family; if one person knew it would only be a matter of time before another knew, and then another and another, and as the game of telephone goes the truth would become embellished and distorted and all of a sudden she wouldn't have only slept with Dean Ambrose but with Brad Maddox too, and so-in-so heard that she slept with this guy in NXT and, oh, this guy in Ring of Honor. Hannah likes fucking the prospects, don't you know? It's why she loves her job so much, because she gets to use her last name to be a filthy, dirty _slut_.

If anyone else could see inside her head it would be extremely easy for them to write off Hannah's paranoia as completely irrational. Hell, _Hannah_ thought she was being irrational. But she knew there was more than enough reason to worry—she had already witnessed that very game of telephone befall other people in the business. It had happened to Kelly Kelly. It had happened to Mickie James. It could certainly happen to her, and the kicker of it all was that she _had_ slept with someone else. If word got out that she had been with not one but _two_ of WWE's biggest stars there really was no telling what rumors would be spread—or, more importantly, how it would affect her career.

"Did you drink last night?"

Again Stephanie ripped Hannah out of her worrisome thoughts. "Yeah," she admitted with a weary sigh. "_Way_ more than I should have. My head was throbbing during the entire press conference."

"Do you feel okay now?"

"Yeah. Just tired, like I said."

She hoped like hell she would just leave it at that, but she should have known better. Stephanie McMahon Levesque was her father's daughter—she needed to know _everything_.

"Who were you with?"

"A bunch of people," Hannah deflected. "AJ and Kaitlyn, Nick, Daniel, Colby."

Ever so slightly Stephanie's eyes narrowed in suspicion—but Hannah decided she had had quite enough of the interrogation. They were supposed to be discussing that night's script.

"So are we gonna talk about what you called me in here for, or what?"

Stephanie pursed her lips, none too pleased with the smart-ass comment, but thankfully she moved on. "Tonight your fiancé will finally get his contract," she announced.

That was news to Hannah. "How? Is he finally gonna win a match?"

"No. He's not getting a _wrestling_ contract. Vince McMahon has named him the Assistant to the Managing Supervisor of Raw."

Hannah paused. Brad Maddox, assistant to Vickie "Excuse Me" Guerrero. If he didn't grate her nerves already…

"Wait," she pondered. "How in the world are you explaining how he got that job? He's _my_ fiancé, and the only person Vince McMahon hates more than me is Heyman. It would be completely illogical for him to grant Brad that position."

Stephanie's blue eyes suddenly twinkled with something mischievous. Hannah cocked her head dubiously. There was something up her sister's sleeve.

"Oh, trust me—there's a condition."

That couldn't have sounded more ominous if she tried. "Okay… what is it?"

The corners of Stephanie's mouth turned up in a portentous grin. "Vickie will bring you out to the ring tonight. You'll find out then."

Hannah's brow lowered. This didn't seem good. This didn't seem good at all. Paul was definitely behind it.

"That's all," Stephanie finished. "You should probably get to makeup. They're gonna need some industrial strength concealer for those bags under your eyes. You look like Phil."

"Oh that was good," Hannah sarcastically returned. "You must be real proud of yourself."

Stephanie's grin remained intact. Yes, she was proud of herself.

With that Hannah abruptly got up and made for the door—she was thoroughly done with this entire conversation—but just as she was about to set foot in the hall Stephanie stopped her.

"Oh, and Hannah. Whatever you do, just don't break character."

That was a warning if Hannah had ever heard one.

This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all.

* * *

"Excuse me!"

The Cajundome positively erupted with boos as Vickie Guerrero stood in the middle of the ring. Of course, the fans' hatred only encouraged her.

"_EXCUSE ME! _I am Vickie Guerrero, and I am the Managing Supervisor of Monday Night Raw!"

Hannah rolled her eyes. Her arms were crossed stubbornly over her chest as she glared at Vickie—this was the absolute last place she desired to be. Not only had she been bothered to come out to the ring for this _announcement_, but Paul Heyman was there too. Apparently Vickie's news pertained to them both.

The self-proclaimed cougar went on. "Now Paul, Hannah—let's not waste any more time. I said I had a _huge_ announcement to make tonight, and this announcement could drastically change your career and your whole life, Paul. And Hannah," she turned a saccharine smile on the Chairman's daughter. "I'm sure it will affect you, too."

She chortled into the microphone. Hannah glowered at her. She wondered if she was in on Stephanie's little "plan" too.

"Tonight," Vickie continued, addressing the crowd more than she was the two people she had dragged out there, "I am going to be naming a new assistant for myself."

Paul was unimpressed; how was _that_ supposed to "drastically change" his career and life? "_And?_" he charged. Vickie ignored him.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the Assistant to the Managing Supervisor of Monday Night Raw is… Brad Maddox!"

Vickie was grinning from ear to ear; Heyman's face was twisted in pure annoyance. Hannah, on the other hand, was nothing short of _pissed_.

"What?" she hissed. What the hell was Vickie playing at hiring _her_ fiancé as her assistant? "What do you mean Brad Maddox is your _assistant_?"

Vickie's only response was that maniacal laugh of hers. Hannah could ring her neck—but then she saw Brad himself emerge from underneath the TitanTron, microphone in hand, and suddenly it was _his_ neck she wanted to ring. He had agreed to this without telling her?

She snatched Vickie's mic from her hands and glared up the ramp at her fiancé. "Brad, what do you think you're doing?"

Brad was entirely nonchalant in the face of her fury as he strolled down the ramp to the ring. Of course he wouldn't have told her about this new position; he cared about absolutely no one but himself. It disgusted her.

"Please, babe, don't get your panties in a jumble; save that for later. I can explain. You see, Vincent Kennedy McMahon himself—dear old Dad—he made me an offer I simply couldn't refuse."

His smirk was so smug that it made Hannah physically sick. Her jaw hardened. This "offer" had to be what Stephanie had been alluding to.

"And now," Brad paused as he climbed the steel steps and ducked through the ropes into the ring. The pompous grin never once left his lips. "He's named me Assistant _Managing_ Supervisor."

Hannah was deadly quiet. She was fuming as she stared back at him with darkened eyes. But before she could say or do a thing Vickie rudely and abruptly snatched the microphone back from her.

"Uh, excuse me, Brad," she started with a bit of a laugh, "it's Assistant _to_ the Managing Supervisor."

"Right," Brad nodded. "Assistant Managing Supervisor."

"Assistant TO the Managing Supervisor."

"That's what I said."

"Is this my cue to vomit?" Heyman interrupted—but then Hannah took charge again. She grabbed Brad's hand and pulled his microphone slowly toward her mouth. Everything about her body language was a threat.

"What exactly was the offer dear old Dad made you, _sweetheart_."

Her tone was low, venomous, demanding. But before he could answer her, the man in question answered for himself.

"Oh I'll tell you what the offer was, Hannah."

Vince McMahon's gravelly voice sounded throughout the arena. Hannah looked up to find him staring down at her from the TitanTron. It was rather intimidating seeing him looming above her like that, literally larger than life. The only things that took away from his absolute dominance were the crutches he was holding.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but last week you and Brad got into a little argument about, well, his _work_ situation. You told him it was _his_ fault he didn't have a WWE contract because he failed to win any of his sanctioned matches, did you not?"

"Mr. McMahon," Brad interjected, "with all due respect, I was the victim of poor officiating in every single one of those—"

Hannah snatched the mic from him before he could finish that statement. "Yes," she answered outright. "I said that, but only because he was trying to put the blame on me. It _is _his fault he doesn't have a contract."

"Uh, _didn't_ have a contract, dear," Brad corrected. "Past tense. I have one now."

"Whoa, whoa," Vince spoke up and all their eyes were drawn to the TitanTron once again. "Not so fast there, Brad. I'm not done yet, and you know what our deal was.

"You see Hannah, that wasn't a very nice thing of you to say to your fiancé, now was it? I mean you love him, don't you? You should want to help him in any way you can! You should want to him to succeed! You _do_ want him to succeed… don't you?"

Hannah's lips were drawn into a thin, agitated grin. That was the same exact thing Brad had asked her last week. "Of course I do," she sweetly returned.

Brad wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her against him. "I love you too, sugar pants." It took all of Hannah not to gag.

"Well then I would say it's about damn time you helped him out!" Vince proclaimed. "It's about time you made good on your promise to get him a contract, and seeing as how you don't believe _he_ can get the job done himself maybe _you_ can. Maybe you can succeed where Brad has failed so many times."

Out of her peripheral vision Hannah saw Brad roll his eyes, but her attention was locked on her father's cruel, twisted grin. If this was going where she thought this was going…

"You see, the position I've given Brad Maddox as the Assistant to the Managing Supervisor is conditional because, well, it's on one condition that he'll get to _keep_ his position: You have to win a match next week on Raw, Hannah. I'll leave your opponent up to Vickie."

A ripple of excitement rushed throughout the crowd. Vickie cackled. Hannah's jaw dropped. She was going to _murder_ Stephanie.

"What?!" she erupted. She turned her anger on Brad. "You knew about this?! You _agreed_ to this?!"

"Only because I believe in you, babe," he coolly returned. She could have punched him.

"I'm sorry, but what does any of _this_ have to do with me?"

During the entire exchange between Hannah and Vince, Paul Heyman had been standing quietly aside. But now his agitation had spilled over. His bulging, incredulous eyes landed on Vickie. "You called me out here for _this?_ _This_ is my surprise? I mean, come on! I _don't _care that Brad Maddox is your new assistant, I _don't_ care if Hannah gets her ass kicked next week—although I'm sure it will be _highly_ entertaining—and I _definitely _don't care what any of _you_ have to say. Thank you and goodnight."

He abruptly turned on his heel and started toward the ropes—but Vince had other plans.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Mr. Heyman! That's not your surprise! _This_ is your surprise! Me, Vincent Kennedy McMahon, Chairman of the Board!"

Heyman froze, petrified. He swallowed a giant lump in his throat. But as soon as his pipes were clear it certainly didn't take long for him to change his tune. "And… and what a pleasant surprise it is, Vi— Mr. McMahon! You look fantastic! Two weeks—"

"Just close your mouth, Mr. Heyman. Because when your mouth is open, you're lying."

He might as well have taken Heyman's voice; he fell completely silent. There wasn't much he could say to that.

"If I do recall," Vince went on, "last week I granted you a wish for a special stipulation in your championship match, did I not?"

Still, Heyman couldn't speak. He was too worried about what exactly it was the Chairman was trying to accomplish with this interrogation.

"Not a trick question," Vince prodded. It was more than enough to get Heyman to answer.

"CM Punk and I requested that you add a stipulation to CM Punk's match against The Rock at the Elimination Chamber for the WWE Championship. And, might I add, Mr. McMahon, out of the goodness of your heart you granted us that stipulation."

Like the two-timing, swindling slime that he was, Heyman had resorted to a familiar defense mechanism: Ass kissing. It had worked for him plenty of times in the past, and he was certainly hoping it would work tonight. But his luck had run out.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Vince said. "First of all, everybody knows, you know, I know… I don't have a heart. If I did it'd be black. It'd be _cold_. But nonetheless, Mr. Heyman, let's take you back and show you some footage of last week."

Vince's image faded away to reveal a scene from the previous week's episode of Raw. Heyman and Vickie were in Vickie's office. Heyman was begging to Mr. McMahon on the other end of Vickie's phone. He would do anything if Vince would give him the requested match stipulation. _Anything_.

The footage ended and the TitanTron faded back to Vince. Heyman shut his eyes tight. He already knew he was about to eat his words.

"Hm," Vince started. "There was a key phrase there, what was it? Oh that's right: It was 'anything.' '_Anything_,' Mr. Heyman. And if you'll recall, I had 'anything' put in writing."

Heyman was backed into a corner with absolutely nowhere to go. The video footage had completely taken away his ability to talk his way out of Vince's trap and he absolutely knew it. "Well, when I'm confronted with the video tape of course I'm gonna tell the truth here, and—"

"No, no, no," Vince interrupted. "You're incapable of telling the truth. But 'anything' means 'anything.' 'Anything' as in... I could fire you, right now."

A wave of excited cheers swelled through the stands at the threat. In start contrast to the fans' elation Heyman looked like he was about ready to piss his pants.

"That might be a good idea. Mr. Heyman…"

It seemed like Heyman's time was up, but then Vince trailed off. He shook his head. He was toying with him.

"No, firing is too good for you, quite frankly. Tell you what's gonna happen. I'm two weeks removed from hip surgery thanks to Brock Lesnar… and you."

Heyman's chubby jaw dropped open in protest. "I—I had nothing to do with that, Mr. McMahon! I—"

"_Shut _your mouth!" Vince snapped. It silenced him immediately. "So next week, Mr. Heyman, I'm gonna walk to the ring on my crutches. I'm gonna step into the ring and you're gonna be there too. And you and I… are gonna have a _fight_."

The only sound was the muffled thud of Heyman's mic as it fell to the mat; even the crowd was shocked into silence. Yet again, Vickie started to laugh. Brad smirked. Hannah, however, wasn't paying much attention to any of it. She was still brooding over the very real surprise of _her_ match.

The show cut to commercial, but that certainly didn't mean the show stopped in the arena. Heyman had crumpled into a heap in the turnbuckle, and after Brad was through mocking him he turned to his fiancée. He tried to pull her toward him again, to appease her, but Hannah vehemently shoved him away.

"_Don't_ touch me," she seethed.

She sent him a cold, hard glare, and he could only watch as she left the ring. "Babe, come on," he tried, but she wasn't listening. She clicked angrily away on her heels down the steel steps and up the ramp, and the second she returned behind the Gorilla curtain she made a beeline for her brother-in-law.

"What the hell, Paul?" she proclaimed. Everyone around stopped to watch but she truly didn't care. She was far too mad to care. "A _match?_ You put me in a match and _that's_ how you tell me?"

Just as Brad had been on camera, Paul was awfully casual for how absolutely heated she was. "It garnered a genuine reaction."

"Ugh!" she let out a groan and punched his arm. "I have a week! A _week_ to learn how to _wrestle!_"

Again, Paul was all too nonchalant. "Well then I suggest you get to training."

"Come down to FCW for the week. I'll train you."

Hannah's hands curled into tight-fisted balls at the sound of Brad's voice. She didn't have to look to know he was smirking. She looked anyway. She wanted to slap him.

"How generous of you, Brad," Paul lauded. "Looks like you're all set, Hannah."

He flashed her that shit-eating grin she had become all too familiar with over the years. Her fists clenched tighter. Sometimes Paul infuriated her even more than Brad did.

"Hannah, Brad," a production assistant broke into the conversation. He seemed in a rush. "We need to film a backstage segment with you two _now_."

Hannah let out a huff; she was far from done with Paul, but this would have to continue later. She pointed an ominous finger in his face. "One day I'll make sure you get yours."

He just chuckled as she stalked off. "You'll thank me later!"

She was too mad to even dignify him with a response. Between Jon, Brad and the news that she would be _wrestling_ on next week's episode of Raw, Hannah might just need another drink before the night was over.

* * *

"So I'm gonna take a wild guess and say you had no idea about your match next week?"

Hannah gave Colby a roll of her eyes as she tossed her things into the back of her rental. The show was over and everyone was heading off in a million different directions that night; some were going back home, some were traveling to Mississippi for tomorrow's SmackDown taping, some were even headed across the globe. She herself was more than ready to get back to the hotel and catch up on some desperately needed sleep.

"No, I had no fucking clue. I found out the exact same time as the entire world. I've never set foot inside a ring in my entire life—well, you know, to actually _wrestle_—and now I have a _week_ to prepare for a match? I'm gonna make an idiot of myself."

"I'm sure it'll just be a short little ridiculous thing," Colby dismissed. "Don't worry about it. Do you have any idea who you're up against?"

She shook her head. "No. I'm thinking it'll be Layla, though. I mean, it has to be a face and I don't think it'll be Natalya or Kaitlyn. Something tells me I'm gonna win."

"Oh, I'm sure of it. Your fiancé has to keep his job."

Hannah ignored his cheeky grin. "So yeah, I'm flying out to Tampa tomorrow morning instead of Connecticut. I've already told Chris. Hopefully he'll have some time to teach me a thing or two. How early is your flight tomorrow?"

The Shield was among a group of Superstars heading to Doha, Qatar in the morning for the Raw World Tour. It was a 17-hour flight. Hannah could only imagine they had to be up at the crack of dawn.

"I don't even know," Colby sighed. "Too damn early. We're driving back to New Orleans tonight and crashing at the airport. I'm fucking excited, though."

"Yeah, I'm sure it'll be amazing. I wish I was going."

Colby just nodded, and then something happened that never happened between them—it got awkward. Not awkward because he didn't know what to say, but awkward because there was something he wanted to say and he wasn't sure how to do it. Hannah could tell just by the look on his face.

"What?" she asked, and his eyes darted around like he was looking for someone; like he was making sure no one was around who could hear. It worried her.

"I know it's none of my business but, well, Daniel and I saw you leave the bar with Jon last night."

Hannah's heart dropped into her stomach like a sack of rocks. Her pulse sped up and her entire body heated up with nervousness. She had been right to be paranoid. Someone, _two_ someones, already knew what had happened last night. At least, they knew part of it.

"What did he tell you?" she asked. There was no doubt in her mind that Jon had told him _something_—of everyone on the roster he was the closest with Colby. He was the nearest thing Jon had to a best friend. Hannah's cheeks involuntarily turned a shade of crimson; knowing Jon, he probably would have divulged _everything_ if asked.

Colby opened his mouth—but, of course, at that very moment exactly the wrong people interrupted them.

"Yo, Colby!" It was Roman, and he and Jon were walking toward them laden down with gym bags and suitcases. "We gotta hit the road."

"Alright," he answered, but then he turned back to Hannah. "He just said he was with you. We'll talk about it later." He got it out just before the others reached them. Hannah did her best to act casual, but she could feel her cheeks still burning. She was sure Jon would notice.

"So you're making your big in-ring debut next week, huh?" Roman said with a bit of a grin. "I'm sure you'll demolish whoever you're up against."

Hannah couldn't help her laugh. She relaxed a bit. "I don't know about that. The trainers will have their work cut out for them down in FCW this week, that's for sure."

"You'll be fine," Colby assured her. "Like I said—you're a natural."

Hannah did her best to smile. She could only hope.

"Well, we gotta get back to New Orleans," Roman said. "Our flight leaves at six which means our asses have to be up at four."

She winced. "That sucks. Good thing you can sleep on the flight."

"Yeah. Good luck training," he said as he reached out to give her a hug. "We'll see you next week."

"Have fun." She pulled away from him and gave Colby a hug goodbye, as well.

"Later, boss," he said, and he ruffled her hair as he and Roman started off toward their car. Hannah was left behind with no one but Jon. Her nerves started going again.

He looked down at her with those piercing blue eyes, his customary smirk in place. She fidgeted underneath his gaze. It was like he could see right through her.

"Do you regret it?"

It wasn't necessary for him to elaborate on what "it" was. She was already well aware—and, surprisingly, she had no qualms with answering the question.

"No. I don't." That was the honest to God truth. She didn't regret it, not one bit. She'd do it again. She was only worried what would happen if—and when—everyone found out.

"Do _you_ regret it?" she asked. It was the scenario from his bedroom all over again, only reversed. Jon's smirk widened.

"I don't do things I would regret."

Her face burned red again. God, she really needed to stop doing that—but it certainly didn't help when he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her body against his. He leaned down and placed a lingering kiss on the corner of her mouth, just close enough to tease her, to make her want more. Her eyes fell closed; part of her wished he had kissed her lips, but another part was thankful he hadn't.

He pulled away, and those blue eyes burned into hers. "Goodbye, Hannah."

"Bye." She could barely get the word out. He sent her a wink and a grin, and with that he left.

Her skin tingled where his lips had touched and her stomach pleasantly flip-flopped. Was it butterflies? She wasn't sure. It had been so long since she had felt them last. But then, from across the parking lot she saw someone who made her stomach do something else entirely.

Phil. He was staring right at her, and she could tell by the look on his face that he had seen everything.


	11. Foot in Mouth

_As always, you all are amazing and I still can't believe all the new reviews/follows/favorites this story is always getting. You make me so incredibly happy :0)_

_This chapter is suuuper long... and it has a bit of a different focus which I'm interested to see how all of you will interpret at the end ;) As always, enjoy and please review!_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but Hannah and the plot._

**Chapter Eleven**

_Feb. 20, 2013  
NXT Facilities  
Tampa, Florida_

"Do it again."

It must have been the thousandth time Chris had repeated that phrase over the course of the last hour, let alone the last two days. Hannah was getting a crash course in professional wrestling. Yesterday the lesson had been bumping, running the ropes and the four most basic holds: Wristlock, waist lock, headlock and hammerlock. Today the lesson was using those holds—chain wrestling. Hannah was tired, she was sore and she was bruised but she would continue to "do it again" until she was told otherwise. Word had come in on her opponent and it was certainly no one she had expected: AJ. The pressure was on not to look like a complete idiot.

The good thing was that Hannah couldn't have possibly been in better hands. Her teacher was none other than Sara Del Rey, veritable indie women's wrestling legend and current NXT trainer. Even better, they had the facilities all to themselves that night—the majority of the NXT roster was off filming in Orlando, and because Chris wasn't on the show that week he was able to lend a second set of eyes and advice.

If Hannah didn't learn _something_ by the end of this week it would be her own damn fault.

Once again, she and Sara locked up in the middle of the ring. They struggled against one another, but then Hannah grabbed ahold of Sara's wrist and spun her arm into a wristlock. She wrenched it and Sara dropped down to a knee, selling the move, and when she got back to her feet Hannah pulled her into a side headlock. Again she worked the hold, squeezing her head between her forearm and bicep, and before Sara could try to reverse it Hannah dropped to a knee and executed a headlock takedown. Sara ended up with her back flat on the mat, her head still trapped in Hannah's grip.

"That was good, Hannah," Chris said from his place on the ring apron.

"You're a fast learner," Sara complimented as she let her up. "Next thing you know you'll be doing suplexes."

Hannah's eyes widened. "Uh, I think I'll leave that up to you. I just want to learn enough to survive Monday."

"As long as you get the basics down you'll be fine," Chris said. "People will actually be pretty impressed if they see you can chain wrestle, and don't even worry about calling the match. AJ will take care of that."

"I doubt there'll be that much to call, anyway," Sara postulated. "I mean I'm sure they want this match to be a complete train wreck. Ziggler, Big E and Maddox will probably _all _be at ringside, and then if The Shield shows up too it'll be complete chaos. You could probably just surprise AJ with a roll up after some sort of distraction."

"No," Chris firmly interjected. "I'm not letting my student win via a surprise roll up."

Sara arched an eyebrow at him. "_Your_ student? I haven't seen you in the ring with her."

"Right, because I'm the teacher. You're just the sparring partner."

Sara shot him a threatening look but Chris had already moved on. "I do want you to learn at least one high-impact move, though; one that's simple enough for you to pull off. I'm thinking a DDT. I'd much rather you hit AJ with a 'surprise' DDT and win that way."

"We could do that," Sara agreed. "Get your ass in here so I can demonstrate."

Chris definitely looked like he was regretting that sparring partner comment now. But he climbed in through the ropes nonetheless.

"Okay," Sara started, "the first thing you're gonna do is kick him in the gut." She squared up with Chris and used the flat of her foot to kick him in the middle of his stomach. He doubled over as if in pain. "You're just gonna tap him and pull your foot away as fast as you can. Make sure to use the flat of your foot; if you use your toe you could end up jabbing him, and if you use your heel you might hit him too hard. And _always_ aim right for the stomach."

"Yes please," Chris said. "I'm not wearing a cup."

Hannah stood parallel to Chris and, just as Sara had, shot her foot out and "kicked" him right in the stomach with the flat of her foot, pulling quickly away after not so much as a tap. Again Chris doubled over, grabbing his stomach.

"Good," Sara said. "Now, for the DDT itself, the first thing you're gonna do is put him in a front facelock." She wrapped her forearm around Chris's neck just as she would for a side headlock; the only difference was that she and him were facing opposite directions. "Then all you're gonna do is kick your legs out from under you and take a back bump, and he's gonna take a face bump. And make sure to do something to let him know you're about to go—you _always_ have to protect each other. The easiest thing to do is just slap him on the back right before you're about to go down."

Just as she explained, Sara smacked Chris on the back and immediately kicked her legs out from underneath her, never letting go of the headlock, and fell backward to the mat landing flat on her back. Chris landed face down, his head turned to the side.

"Pretty simple move," he said, but Hannah was thinking otherwise. Sure it was simple, but it was also rather intimidating—she wasn't all too confident in her bumping ability. They must have spent 45 minutes alone on bumping yesterday and she _still_ didn't do it quite right every time. She didn't want to injure herself, let alone anyone else.

Sara could tell exactly what she was thinking. "If you're worried about taking the bump what you can do is swing your outside leg back and then forward before you jump. The momentum will help, and it'll actually make the move look more impactful."

"That's how Dean Ambrose does it," Chris stated. He still hadn't gotten up off the mat.

Sara gave her some more instructions. "Now, the one thing you really have to remember about this move is that when you first put him in the facelock your grip is going to be tight, but when you drop back you _have_ to loosen it up so that he can fall on his own. Don't let go, but give him some room. If you don't he'll end up landing on the top of his head."

Hannah furrowed her brow. "Okay."

"You'll be fine. Want to try it?"

She just nodded. There was no sense in _not_ trying.

"Get up!" Sara nudged Chris with her foot, but before he could pull himself up the sound of someone opening the door to the training room cut through the silence. Hannah rolled her eyes when she saw who it was. Brad.

"The party has arrived," he announced with a smirk.

"Nice of you to finally join us," Chris commented—but Hannah wanted to know why the hell he had even shown up at all.

"What're you doing here?" she charged. "How did you even know to come?"

As he was so often wont to do Brad completely ignored the question. "She's such a charmer, isn't she? It's why I asked her to marry me."

"I told him to come," Chris answered.

Hannah turned icy eyes on him. He had _what?_

"I figured he should, seeing as how he's actually going to be there with you on Monday."

She just crossed her arms and looked away—the body language equivalent of "whatever."

"So what're we working on?" Brad asked as he climbed in through the ropes. Hannah started to say something smart but Sara beat her to the jump.

"Well, Hannah was just about to try a DDT for the first time. So thanks for volunteering!"

Brad paused. It didn't look like he liked the sound of that. Hannah, on the other hand, was suddenly more ready to go than ever.

"Yeah, Brad, thanks for volunteering!"

As nervous as he looked she knew he wasn't going to back down. He was far too proud for that. He flashed them an uneasy grin. "No problem!"

Chris and Sara moved out of the way as Hannah and Brad stood across from each other in the center of the ring. It may be all in good fun forcing him to take the DDT, but the last thing Hannah wanted to do was screw up. She would never hear the end of it.

"Alright, just do like I showed you," Sara said. "Kick him and then give him the DDT. And don't forget to let him know and loosen up before you go down."

Hannah nodded. She took a breath in through her nose and out through her mouth. She could do this.

She moved toward Brad and kicked him swiftly in the stomach, making sure to pull her foot quickly away. He bent over at the waist and she put him in a front facelock, keeping her grip tight as she held him there for a beat. Then she slapped him on the back, and before she could psyche herself out she swung her right leg quickly back and forward and allowed the momentum to carry her backward and off her feet. She loosened her hold as they fell and hit the mat with a loud thud, Hannah on her back and Brad on his face. It probably could have been a little harder, but she had done it.

"That was great, Hannah!" Chris proclaimed. "That _has_ to be how you win on Monday. Did it feel okay?"

"Yeah, it felt pretty good," she said as she pushed herself up. "It definitely helped swinging my leg like that. Are you okay, Brad?"

Brad hadn't moved an inch. He was prostrate on the mat with his arms and legs sprawled out to each side, completely still and quiet.

"Brad? Hello?" Hannah gently nudged him in the ribs with her foot. He didn't move. She did it again, harder. Still absolutely nothing.

"Did you kill him?" Sara joked. But Hannah was beginning to worry for real.

"Brad?" she asked again. No response.

She dropped to her knees beside him to get a good look at his face. His eyes were closed shut and his lips slightly parted; if she didn't know any better it looked like he had been knocked out cold. Panic started to set in. How could this have happened? She had done everything right! He knew how to take a DDT, didn't he?

"Brad?" She grabbed ahold of his shoulder and shook. "Please do something!" He was completely unresponsive. Hannah was absolutely mortified—she had finally killed her fake fiancé.

"AH!"

"Shit!"

She nearly jumped out of her skin when he suddenly grabbed ahold of her wrist. Chris and Sara dissolved into a fit of laughter. He had been faking the whole time—and he was all too pleased with his prank.

"You should have seen your face!"

"You fucking jerk!" she exclaimed as she smacked him. "I thought I had given you a concussion or something!"

"Awww. You were worried about me."

She smacked him again, but that time Brad caught her wrist and pulled her down into an armbar. She was flat on her stomach as he wrenched her arm back; there wasn't a whole lot she could do to counter, even if she did know what she was doing.

"Ask her!" Brad proclaimed.

Chris knelt down in front of her. "What do you say, Hannah?"

"Ow!" Unexpectedly, Hannah let out a whimper of sheer, undiluted pain. "Ow my wrist! Let go!"

Brad dropped her arm like it was made of hot coals. Hannah rolled over onto her back, gingerly cradling her right wrist as her face contorted in pain. The others stared on in concern, but none were more horrified than Brad. If he had injured the boss's daughter he would be in deep shit.

"I'm sorry, Hannah, I wasn't trying to hurt you."

"This is my bad wrist, Brad," she snapped. "I fractured it back when I used to dance."

All the color drained from his face—and that was when she put him in a headlock.

"Like a true heel," Sara proudly stated.

Slowly Hannah worked her way to her feet, bringing Brad up with her. "Do the takedown!" Chris shouted, but it was too late. Brad had already caught her nearest leg and was lifting her up into the air; she was about to be on the receiving end of a side slam.

"No, no no no no no!" she pleaded, but of course he didn't listen. He threw her flat on her back down to the canvas, and the next thing she knew he had hooked her leg in a pin. The mat vibrated underneath them as Chris counted _1-2-3_.

"Your winner, Brad Maddox!" he announced.

Brad sat up and leaned over her, a giant grin on his lips. "Sorry, babe. You'll get there eventually."

Hannah glared up at him. "Good thing you're a short shit otherwise it might have actually hurt."

Of course, the trash talk only encouraged him. "Mm, I love it when you talk dirty. Come 'ere."

He leaned down with the clear intention of kissing her, but Hannah put her hand in his face and tried to scramble away. He countered by grabbing her waist and pulling her back toward him, and all of a sudden they were wrestling in the middle of the NXT training ring like a pair of five-year-olds.

"Clearly you two were made for each other," Sara quipped; but then Hannah got Brad onto his back and locked on an armbar of her own, Alberto Del Rio style. It wasn't long before he cracked.

"Ahhhh, okay, okay I give up," he relented as he tapped. It was another second before Hannah let go.

"Your winner, Hannah McMahon!" Chris proclaimed, and he raised her arm high above her head in victory. Brad, meanwhile, remained spread eagled on the mat, defeated.

"That hurt," he pouted.

Hannah beamed from ear to ear. Maybe learning to wrestle wouldn't be so bad after all.

* * *

_Chris Spradlin's Apartment  
Tampa, Florida_

Hannah had never been so grateful for a couch and a piece of pizza. After an entire day spent inside the ring, using muscles she hadn't in years, she was more than ready to kick back and relax, watch TV and stuff her face. There would be no movement on her part for the rest of the night.

"Thanks again for letting me stay with you, Chris," she said through a mouthful of cheesy goodness. "I'll go over to Kaitlyn's tomorrow night so I'm not invading your space all week."

Chris cocked an eyebrow at her. "Are you trying to make me jealous?"

She just smiled. Really, she felt terribly guilty for taking over both his bed and his free time that week, especially on such short notice, but she was also unbelievably thankful. It was times like this when Hannah realized what an amazing group of friends she had—she would certainly go insane without them.

"Seriously though, I don't mind," he replied. "You can stay as long as you want."

"Okay, but I'll sleep on the couch tonight."

"No."

A huff escaped her. "Fine, but at least let me do something as a thank you."

"There's no need to thank me, Hannah. I'm helping because I genuinely don't want you to make an idiot of yourself on Monday."

She mirrored his cheeky grin. "Gee, thanks."

"For real, you did really well tonight," he assured. "I mean it. And is it just me or are you actually warming up to your fiancé?"

"Ha!" Hannah let out a loud laugh at the ridiculousness of the notion. "Please."

"I don't know… you seemed pretty flirty there in the ring tonight."

"_That_ was not flirting. I was just trying to get one over on him."

"Uh huh," he finished with a teasing smirk, but Hannah grew quiet. All of a sudden she was debating whether or not to tell Chris about Jon.

Telling him would certainly get the secret off her chest. Sure, Colby knew part of the story but they hadn't been able to talk about it—and Hannah _wanted_ to talk about it, provided it was with someone she trusted and who was familiar with Jon. Chris was both of those things. She would appreciate his male, informed perspective on the situation.

On the other hand, Chris also already knew she had slept with Phil. What would he think of her if he found out she had slept with Jon too? She wasn't so sure she wanted to know.

But now she was thinking about it and she wouldn't be able to rest until she said something.

"Even if I could tolerate his presence for more than a few minutes at a time I wouldn't be interested in Brad. I'm already kind of interested in someone else."

"Interested" wasn't exactly the right word. But it got Chris's attention.

"Oh really? Anyone I know?"

She nodded.

"Who?"

Hannah inhaled a deep breath through her nose. There was no turning back now. "Jon."

At first Chris didn't say a thing; there were multiple people he knew who went by that name. But then realization lit up his eyes. There was only one Hannah could possibly mean. "Jon Good? Dean Ambrose?"

Again, Hannah nodded.

"_What?_" Chris was beside himself. He obviously never in a million years would have guessed that Hannah McMahon would be "interested" in one Jonathan Good. CM Punk, sure, but not Dean Ambrose. It threw him for a complete loop. "Please, explain to me how this happened."

Hannah picked at the crust of her pizza. She couldn't bring herself to look at him when she finally spit it out. "Well… I slept with him."

She winced, anticipating the worst, but Chris's only reaction was complete and utter shocked silence. He was staring at her, completely still, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Honestly, she didn't know if that was better or worse than anything else he could have done or said.

"When?" he finally asked. "The night you stayed at his apartment?"

She shook her head. "No, after Elimination Chamber. But he did kiss me at his apartment."

"So three days ago?" he figured.

She nodded. "Yeah."

His mouth fell open again. "Holy shit, Hannah."

"Do you think I'm a slut? Because I've slept with Phil too?"

The question came up before she could stop it. She felt like a child for asking, like she was back in high school. She was a grown 27-year-old woman for God's sake; she could do whatever the hell she wanted. But she didn't want Chris to think that about her. She didn't want anyone to.

"What? No, Hannah. I don't think that at all. Hey."

She looked over at him, brow furrowed and sheepish. His eyes were soft.

"You're not a slut. You and Phil happened a long time ago, and even if it hadn't I wouldn't think that about you. I'm pretty sure you're not the kind of person who would sleep with someone just for the hell of it—which is why I'm so surprised. I didn't even realize there was anything going on between you and Jon."

That was a bit of a loaded statement. Was there anything going on between them? "I don't know what's going on, if anything at all. Maybe _he_ slept with _me_ just for the hell of it."

That thought had been lingering in the back of her mind for days now. Maybe it had been nothing but sex to Jon; maybe she was nothing more than the latest notch in his belt and another trophy in his case. Hell, she wasn't even that much of a trophy—she had given it up pretty damn easily. Maybe this whole time he had been manipulating her to think he actually gave a shit about what Phil had put her through. Maybe she had been used. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Look," Chris started, his voice heavy, "I don't want you to jump to any conclusions, but I'll be honest with you: Jon _is_ rather morally loose. He's never been one to turn down a rat."

Hannah's expression contorted into one of complete disgust. She thought back to the girl who had been sitting on his lap at the bar in New Orleans. Suddenly she wasn't so hungry anymore.

"But _you're_ not a rat or some skank he picked up at a bar," he added. "I can't speak for Jon or the situation, but my feeling is it wasn't _just_ sex. I mean, the last time you were here he invited you into his apartment—which I can tell you is something he _doesn't_ do—and if it was just sex he wanted he probably would have tried to get it that night. Give yourself some credit. I'm sure he does."

Chris's words washed over her and she mulled them over in her head. He was right; if it was sex Jon had wanted he could have damn well gotten it from her that night at his apartment. He could have gotten it from that slut in New Orleans. But he hadn't. He had waited until _she_ asked for it. It had happened on _her_ terms.

And yet, knowing that still wasn't enough to quell her fear that he would just toss her aside. Just like Phil.

* * *

_Feb. 22, 2013  
Hyde Park Café  
Tampa, Florida_

"How did this happen? I'm drunk."

Hannah pouted into her empty glass. It was Friday night, and when Chris had told her everyone wanted to go out and celebrate her "graduation" from wrestling school she had agreed on one condition: They _had _to make sure she didn't get drunk. She had been doing far too many unexpected things under the influence as of late and she really didn't need another headache in the morning—both literally and figuratively.

But apparently, when partying with the generous folks of NXT, staying sober was a hell of a lot easier said than done. First Chris had bought her a drink, then Sara had bought her a drink and then Bo had bought her _another_ drink. Oh, and at some point Richie Steamboat had shown up and bought them _all_ shots.

So much for not getting drunk. Hannah just couldn't turn down free alcohol; it was rude.

"Well, what I _think_ happened was you had a drink, and then you had another one, and then you had a shot, and now you're on your third drink. And because you're a featherweight you're drunk."

Brad peered at her through the dark with that disgustingly smug smirk of his. It irritated her. Hannah had little patience for things that irritated her when she was sober, let alone when she was drunk—and he had been nagging at her nerves _all week_. How in the world had she wound up alone with _him?_ Where the hell was Chris? Where the hell was _anyone?_

"I'm not a _featherweight_," she retorted.

He gave her a look like she was being completely ridiculous. It irritated her more. What the hell did _he_ know about her tolerance? They didn't hang out. They weren't even _friends_.

"Shots all around!"

With absolutely impeccable timing, Briley Pierce and Summer Rae appeared with two shots apiece in hand. Just what Hannah needed: Even more free alcohol.

Summer handed her extra shot to Brad and Briley started to pass his to Hannah—but it was swiftly intercepted by her fiancé.

"Hannah doesn't get one," he said.

"What do you mean she doesn't get one?" Summer proclaimed. "This is _her_ celebration!"

"Well, she told me she doesn't want to get trashed," he diplomatically explained. "And seeing as how she's already two thirds of the way there I'm just looking out for her best interests."

Hannah affixed murderous eyes on Brad. He had some nerve, this one. As if he cared about her "best interests." He couldn't care less. All he cared about was getting under her skin, like always.

"I didn't tell _you_ that, and I'm not _two thirds_ of the way there." She promptly snatched the shot from his hand, nearly sloshing the creamy, coffee-colored liquid over the edge of the glass. "One more shot isn't gonna kill me."

"Here, here!" Briley proclaimed. They all clinked their glasses—Brad somewhat reluctantly so—and downed their shots in a single gulp. The rich, sweet liquor tasted good on Hannah's tongue. It was a Buttery Nipple.

Immediately Briley and Summer scurried off to the dance floor and Hannah was left alone with Brad once again. She glared at him—at this point it was automatic. Even through the beat of the music she could hear him clucking his tongue at her.

"This doesn't speak much for your resolve, does it?"

Hannah bit down on her jaw. Why? Why in the world did he always have to be such an insufferable asshole? Over the course of the last few days she had spent way more time with him than she ever would have chosen to, and honestly she didn't know how much more of him she could take.

"And what do you care about my _resolve?_" she charged.

"Like I said," he went on, all high and mighty, "I'm just looking out for your best interests. I mean I've never seen you this… well, _drunk_ before."

That was it. That was the last straw. So many times, in the name of professionalism Hannah had stilled her tongue to keep herself from absolutely ripping Brad a new one. But now that she _was_ this drunk she had absolutely no problem letting him know _exactly_ what she thought of him.

"Of course you've never seen me this drunk before, Brad, because we don't hang out. In case you haven't noticed, we're not friends. In case you haven't figured it out, I _don't_ like you. I'd rather swim through a pool of piranhas than spend _any_ time with you. In fact, the piranhas would probably have more of my _best interests_ in mind because you don't care about anyone but yourself. You probably wouldn't piss to put me out if I was on fire. I work with you because I have to, and that's it. So do me a favor and leave me the hell alone. I can get drunk if I want to."

For the first time in what had to have been his entire life Brad was left completely and utterly speechless. It was an unbelievably satisfying feeling for Hannah, to shut him up like that. So she left and got another drink.

And she drank.

And drank.

And soon she wasn't just trashed—she was three sheets to the wind. Why the hell shouldn't she be? Tonight was her night. They were celebrating because she had learned to wrestle in a week. Or, at the very least she had learned enough to spend three minutes not humiliating herself. She deserved a drink or five after all the bumps and bruises, after all the sweat and determination, after all the stress and headaches, after all the heartache and uncertainty.

Okay, so maybe she wasn't just drinking away a week of training. But that was irrelevant at this point.

But as she navigated her way around the scuzzy guys and scantily clad girls she came to the decision that this next drink would be her last. The world was starting to spin and move in slow motion. Maybe she shouldn't even have another drink. But she didn't know where Chris was and she didn't feel like looking for him.

Before she knew it she was at the bar. She climbed onto an empty stool and pulled her phone out of her back pocket. It was barely 2:15 A.M.; the club didn't close for another 45 minutes. She opened her messages and started to compose a text to Chris, but someone unexpectedly stole her attention.

"What're you drinking?"

She looked up and found Corey Graves standing before her. Hannah knew who he was—he had been wrestling dark matches prior to Raw and SmackDown for the last few weeks, not to mention he had been one of The Shield's primary targets in NXT—but outside of what she had seen inside the ring she didn't know much about him. She found him rather intriguing, to be quite honest, what with the tattoos and piercing eyes and "live free, die young" sort of attitude. Perhaps one more drink to get to know him wouldn't hurt.

She bit her lip as she stared back at him. "Just whatever cider they have," she answered. It would probably be best to go with something less alcoholic than what she had been drinking all night.

He ordered her a cider and himself a beer, and a few minutes later the bartender brought them two long necked bottles. He sat down on the stool next to her, and for a few seconds they just watched each other. Hannah was definitely drunk.

"Feeling pretty good?" he asked.

She didn't answer right away; she was too busy studying him. He was rather attractive, in an unconventional sort of way. He was dangerous. Maybe that was what she liked. Phil and Jon were both dangerous in their own unique ways. Hannah had a thing for the bad boys; of that there was no doubt. Perhaps that was why her love life was such a complete wreck—she had a knack for picking the ones who were predisposed to give her trouble.

He smirked at her silence. "I'm gonna take that as a yes."

She just smiled and bit her lip again. Yeah, she was feeling pretty good.

"So how the hell did I get so lucky to find you sitting here all by yourself?"

Hannah looked down and playfully shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. I guess everyone else found better company."

"Bullshit," he dismissed. "I thought you would have been with Chris all night."

There was no mistaking the meaning in his tone. He was fishing for information. "There's nothing going on with me and Chris," she supplied. "We're just friends."

He nodded, satisfied with the answer, and took a swig of his beer. Hannah couldn't help it—she watched his lips. He didn't miss it.

"But you are going home with him?"

She decided it would be best not to answer that one. Instead she just offered him an impish grin. He didn't miss that, either.

Suddenly the beat of the music blasting through the club changed. Hannah closed her eyes and smiled when she recognized it. "I love this song," she said, and when she looked back at Corey she couldn't stop herself. "Wanna dance?"

He said nothing; just took another drink of his beer and set it on the bar. His eyes never left hers. That was enough of an answer for Hannah. She stood from her seat, grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled him out onto the dance floor.

They found a spot in the crowd and Corey immediately pulled her body flush against his, her back against his chest. His hands found her hips, and Hannah's eyes fell closed as she let her head fall back on his shoulder. She was wasted, that's why she was doing this. When she was this inebriated Hannah turned into a flirtatious, physical being. She just wanted to be touched, to get attention from any attractive male who would give it to her. It was why she didn't often let herself get this far gone, and especially not around the wrestlers—it was bound to get her in trouble.

She liked the way the firmness of his torso felt against her back, the way his hips moved with hers. Her hands fell on top of his and their fingers laced together. He buried his face in the crook of her neck…

"Let's get out of here," he breathed into her ear, and when she felt his lips on her skin Hannah began to realize she was doing something stupid.

"Come on," he said. He didn't give her a choice in the matter; he just grabbed her hand and pulled her through the crowd and off the dance floor. She followed behind him, but it was like she was awaking from a dream or resurfacing from under water. Suddenly she realized she didn't want to go anywhere with him or any other man. The only man she wanted to follow home was Jon.

Abruptly she jerked her hand free from his grip. He stopped and turned, confused.

"What's wrong?"

She shook her head. "I'm not leaving with you."

He smirked, trying to use that dangerous charm that had trapped her in first place. "Come on, sweetheart, now you're gonna act shy? That's just not fair."

He placed his hands on her hips and tried to pull her into him but she firmly pushed him away.

"I said I'm not leaving with you," she repeated. As far as she was concerned that was the end of it. She made to push past him—but he reached out and grabbed her arms, tight. She looked up into his eyes. They were dangerous, but not in the appealing way that they had been before. They frightened her.

"Come on, Hannah. Don't play hard to get."

He was backing her into a dark, lonely corner. Hannah began to fear the worst. She struggled against him but he was far too strong—he had five inches and at least 70 lbs of lean muscle on her. She'd never be able to fight him off. She started to panic.

"Get off me!" she shouted, but he hissed at her to calm down. Her back hit the wall with a thud, and his fingers were pressing so hard into her flesh she was sure they would leave bruises. She was terrified.

He leaned down and whispered into her ear again. "Just play nice and I'll let go."

It sounded like more of a threat than an agreement. She continued to fight but his grip only became more vice-like. She whimpered, pleading for him to let her go. She couldn't even move her legs to knee him he had her so tight against the wall. There was absolutely nothing she could do—but then he was suddenly and violently jerked away from her.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Hannah couldn't believe it. It was Brad.

Corey sneered at him. He was far too casual for what he had just been caught doing. "Why don't you mind your own fucking business?"

Brad laughed shortly to himself. "Right. Well see, douchebag, you made it my business when you put your hands on her."

Corey's expression didn't change. If anything, it only became more twisted. He stepped toe-to-toe with Brad and stared him straight in the eye. "What, jealous I beat you to it? That I was gonna fuck your fiancée before you?"

Brad pursed his lips as if contemplating something—and then he swung. His fist connected firmly with Corey's jaw and he went stumbling back, stunned. Corey brushed his thumb over his lip, checking for blood; and then he lunged. An all-out brawl erupted. They fell to the floor, punching and scrambling and knocking over any and everyone in their destructive radius. Girls shrieked and guys egged them on, and when Briley and Bo turned up even they couldn't keep them from each other. It wasn't until Chris—and security—arrived that the fight was broken up.

"What the fuck is going on?!" Chris boomed. Corey had a busted, bloody lip and Brad's shirt was torn open, but Chris went from enraged to worried when his eyes fell on Hannah.

"Hannah, what's wrong? What happened?"

Hannah's arms were wrapped securely around herself as she huddled against the wall. She was near catatonic. She shook her head; it was taking all of her not to break down crying. "Corey… he—he tried…"

Her words died off, but she didn't need to say any more. Chris understood crystal clear.

"Come on, we're going home," he said. His eyes were dark and cold. Hannah knew that look. He wanted to bash Corey's skull in, and he probably would if they didn't leave right then and there.

He wrapped his arm around her, and after getting their things he ushered her out of the club. Hannah couldn't have been more relieved. She wanted nothing more than to go back to his place, crawl into bed and pass out. But as timing would have it, they exited the club just as security was tossing Corey to the curb.

"Stay here," Chris instructed.

"Chris, don't," Hannah pleaded—she thought the bastard had gotten it good enough from Brad—but it was too late. He had already grabbed him by his shirt collar and slammed him hard against the brick wall.

"You so much as _look_ at her wrong ever again and I will put you six feet fucking under, you understand?"

Corey was stubborn in his silence, but even from yards away Hannah could tell that he took Chris's words to heart. The Knockout Kid was not someone _anyone_ would want to test.

"Get the fuck outta my sight," he scowled, and he pushed him so hard he nearly fell to the ground. "Piece of shit."

Chris made sure Corey had cleared off before returning to Hannah. As harsh as he had been with him he was that much more gentle with her.

"Are you okay?"

She just nodded. Honestly, she was rather in awe at what he had just done.

"Let's go," he said, but before he could pull her along with him she stopped. She had spotted someone else exiting the club. Brad.

"Brad!"

She ran after him, and he turned at the sound of his name. It was only a few feet before she reached him, and the very first thing she did was wrap her arms around his neck and pull him into a hug.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I'm sorry, for what I said. I'm so sorry."

Her voice cracked with emotion. She felt horrible. She felt like an absolutely terrible human being for all the horrendous, hurtful things she had said to him that night. Now she knew just how completely wrong she had been. She wished absolutely anything she could take it back. She would do anything to make it right. There weren't words for how grateful she was.

Brad wrapped his arms around her and returned the embrace. "Don't worry about it. I'm just glad you're okay."

She gave him one last squeeze, and before she pulled away she placed a tender kiss on his cheek.

"You sure you're okay?" he seriously asked.

She nodded. "Thanks to my, how'd you put it? Astoundingly sexy and talented fiancé?"

He smiled. "Something like that. Get home safe, okay?"

She nodded again. "You too."

He let her go, and, ever so lightly, her fingers gripped his before they fell apart and went their separate ways. Hannah watched him for a second before she turned and made her way back to Chris.

Maybe Brad wasn't so bad after all.


	12. Red Flag

_I was hoping to get this out before Raw tonight, but better late than never!_

_As always, I can't thank you all enough for all your reviews and support. Please keep them coming... even if you all might hate me by the end of this chapter :x_

_Disclaimer: I own nothing but Hannah and the plot._

**Chapter Twelve**

_Monday, February 25, 2013  
WWE Monday Night Raw  
American Airlines Center – Dallas, Texas_

"You want me to _what?_"

Hannah was hoping beyond hope she had heard Stephanie wrong. She hadn't spent all last week busting her ass inside the ring only for Creative to completely negate it all by having her win her match against AJ like _that_.

"I want you to kiss Dolph."

_Fuck._ She hadn't heard wrong.

"Stephanie, no. I _can't_ kiss Dolph. I've ki—"

Hannah stopped herself right there. She had been on the verge of saying, "I've kissed enough people already," but Stephanie didn't know that. And she didn't need to.

"My body is covered in bruises," she recovered. "I spent all last week in Tampa training and preparing for tonight, and you want me win to via DQ because I _kissed Dolph?_"

"You're not a wrestler, Hannah," Stephanie dismissed. "People won't believe you can logically beat AJ without cheating."

"Please, when the hell did you all start caring about what's logical?"

Stephanie's nostrils flared with agitation. But she composed herself and went on. "You're not a wrestler. You're a heel. You use underhanded tactics. You're going to kiss Dolph because you know AJ will blow a gasket and do something to get herself DQ'd. I'll leave it up to you and her to figure out the details."

Abruptly she stood from the couch and made for the door. Hannah's brow furrowed; that _couldn't_ be the end of the conversation. "Wait, where are you going?"

Stephanie glanced back over her shoulder with her hand paused on the doorknob. "I have other things to sort out for tonight. More important things."

With that she left. Good thing too, otherwise Hannah might have thrown something at her.

She sank heavily back into the cushions of the couch and closed her eyes. She was exhausted, bruised, beat up and nervous, and now to top it all off she was frustrated. The last thing she wanted to do was kiss Dolph Ziggler, even if it was just for show. After the events of the weekend she'd rather just stay away from men for a while.

Well, all men save maybe one.

There was a sudden knock on her dressing room door and her eyes flew open. Who the hell could this be now? Couldn't she be alone for 10 minutes? But she called for them to come in, anyway. The door opened, and in walked possibly the only person she could tolerate at that moment. Jon.

She hadn't seen or spoken to him in a week; he and the rest of the roster who had gone overseas for the Raw World Tour had only just returned stateside yesterday. He looked tired from the travel, disheveled even, but the sight of him still made her heart race.

She offered a tiny smile. "Hey."

"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes," he said. "Come here."

He pulled her off the couch and up and into his arms. Hannah could have stayed there forever. She felt strangely safe there. She never would have thought so, but she did.

"I missed you," she mumbled into his shoulder. It was the honest to goodness truth—she _had_ missed him. After what Corey had tried Friday night she would have given anything just to fall asleep next to Jon, regardless of the nature of their relationship. She had just wanted to be with him.

"Did you?" he asked. She looked up into those blue eyes. He smirked. "Good."

He captured her lips in his and she melted into him. She loved the way he kissed her, tender but full of passion. She absolutely couldn't get enough of it. She couldn't get enough of _him_. A week had been way too long.

His lips moved to her neck and she turned to putty in his hands. He sucked and nibbled at her skin. She dragged her nails over his shoulders and a moan of raw, undeniable yearning escaped her lungs. Jon smiled against her.

"So _that's _what you missed."

All of a sudden Hannah pushed him down onto the couch. There was no time for teasing. She wanted him. Now.

Their eyes locked as she stripped herself of her jacket. He enjoyed her unexpected aggressiveness, she could see it smoldering in the way he watched her. It turned her on even more. Last time he had pleased her; now she wanted to please him.

She straddled his lap and ran her palms up his chest. God, she couldn't take that smirk he was giving her—but then his expression changed. Slowly that sexy, hungry grin dissolved as his gaze fell on her upper arm. Hannah's stomach dropped. He had spotted the bruises.

"Who did that to you?"

His tone was low and ominous. Hannah's breath caught in her throat. She didn't want to tell him the truth. She was afraid of what he might do.

"No one did it, not on purpose. It's from training."

"Hannah," he firmly interjected. "Those are finger marks. Who did that to you."

It was a statement, not a question. He wasn't going to buy anything but the truth, and furthermore he wasn't going to let her get away without telling him.

She had to swallow the lump in her throat before she could answer. "Corey Graves," she admitted. "He… didn't want to take 'no' for an answer."

Jon's eyes turned dark. It worried her.

He shifted to get up, giving Hannah no choice but to slide off his lap onto the couch. This wasn't good.

"Jon, where are you going?"

He didn't flinch or pause. "To kill that motherfucker."

He exited the room before Hannah could even process what exactly that meant. But she jumped up and darted after him.

"Jon!" He was already halfway down the hall and he wasn't stopping. "Shit," she cursed under her breath. She didn't know what exactly it was he had planned for Corey, but she knew she had to stop him.

She hurried after him as quickly as she could. His stride was so much longer than hers—he could cover twice as much ground in the same amount of steps. "Jon, stop!" she tried again as he rounded a corner, but he wasn't listening. She kept up with him just long enough to see him disappear into the men's locker room.

Hannah went right in after him. But no one inside to noticed her entry. They were already too preoccupied with the beat down taking place in the middle of the room.

Jon had Corey pinned to the floor. He was throwing fist after fist after fist and the only thing Corey could do was try to block the blows. Hannah watched on in absolute horror. The left side of Corey's face was crimson with blood.

"You think it's funny to try to force yourself on a girl? Huh?" Jon yelled in between strikes. Wade Barrett was the first to try to pull him away but he elbowed him in the gut. It took the added strength of Roman to finally pry him off.

"Jon, stop!" he boomed. "What the fuck is wrong with you, man?"

Jon completely ignored him. He was enraged.

"I don't care what you do with the trash you pick up off the street, but if you _ever_ put your hands on her again I will _end_ your fucking career!"

"JON!" Roman erupted again. "Calm the fuck down!"

"Get off me," he hissed and shrugged out of Roman's grip. He stalked right past Hannah without so much as a glance, and just like that he was gone.

Every single pair of eyes in the room turned to Hannah. She froze. She had absolutely no idea what to do, much less what to say. But then her gaze met Colby's and her first instinct was to flee.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, and she ran out of the locker room.

She covered her mouth as she retreated down the hall. She felt nauseous. Maybe Jon's arms weren't so safe, after all.

* * *

"Are you nervous?"

Hannah could only nod at Brad's question. It was mere minutes until her in-ring debut; and while she was as physically prepared as she could get, her mental preparedness was quite another story.

She just couldn't shake off what she had seen in that locker room.

"Don't be," Brad returned. "Just pretend everyone out there is naked. Well, except AJ. Unless you're into that."

The smallest of smiles worked its way onto her lips. Things had certainly changed between Hannah and Brad since that night in Tampa—she was actually happy to have her goofy fiancé by her side. If he had heard about what Jon had done—and she was willing to bet he had—he wasn't letting on. "Thanks for coming out with me, Brad."

He shrugged. "It's in the script," he said. Hannah gave him a pointed look. He grinned. "I'm kidding."

Unfortunately the distraction Brad provided was short lived—Hannah went right back to fidgeting. She shifted from side to side and tugged at the hem of her top; honestly, there wasn't a whole lot there to tug. Wardrobe had outfitted her like she was the fourth member of The Shield: black cargo pants and black boots with a plain black tank top that had been cropped to show off her midriff. She had even wrapped her wrists in black athletic tape.

She certainly looked the part. She just wasn't sure she felt it.

Brad spoke up again. "Do you think Stephanie will be pissed you changed the finish?"

"Oh, there's no question," Hannah returned. "But she can get over it."

"Cue AJ in 10!" one of the producers suddenly called. Hannah's heart started hammering in her chest. It was go time.

"Let's do this," AJ said. She bumped Hannah's fist with her own just as her music started, and she, Dolph Ziggler and Big E. Langston disappeared to the other side of the heavy black Gorilla curtain. Hannah and Brad wouldn't be far behind.

"Do you have music?" Brad asked.

"Nope. It's just us and our good looks."

He grinned. "Now you're starting to sound like my fiancée."

"Alright, Hannah," the producer interrupted. "It's all you."

Hannah took a deep, steadying breath. "Let's go," she said, and she and Brad stepped out into the spotlight.

The arena erupted the very second they hit the stage. Tens of thousands of fans booed them from the stands, surrounding them with nothing but disdain. It was the best thing Hannah could have heard; at least she knew she was doing her job as a heel.

Lilian Garcia's voice cut through the jeers. "And introducing her opponent, being accompanied to the ring by Brad Maddox, from Greenwich, Connecticut—Hannah McMahon!"

The boo birds intensified, but Hannah blocked out every bit of it as she made her way down the ramp. All of her focus was intently on the ring, a look of stony determination etched onto her features. Perhaps the odds were stacked against her but, dammit, she was a McMahon—and the McMahons _never_ backed down from a fight.

She paused at the bottom of the ramp. AJ was draped across the ropes, grinning maniacally down at her. Her boy toy Dolph, meanwhile, was busy running his mouth.

"Come on, Hannah!" he said as he taunted her to get in the ring. "Come in here and _wrestle!_"

Brad turned worrisome eyes on his fiancée. "Please don't screw this up."

Hannah said nothing, but her glare spoke volumes. Brad was already on thin ice for having gotten her into this mess, and if he didn't watch it he'd be six feet _under_ the doghouse.

"Aw, what's wrong, Hannah?" Dolph went on with his goading. "Are you scared?"

She scowled back at him. No, she wasn't scared. But if she got into the ring it was going to be on _her_ terms.

Promptly she marched toward the timekeeper's area. "Give me a mike," she ordered Lilian. She snatched it from her grip as soon it was handed to her and immediately brought it to her lips. "Oh, Dolph, don't you worry your bleached little head. I'll get in there and _wrestle_. I'll get in there and kick your psychotic little ass, AJ, I promise you that. But my name is Hannah _McMahon_. What I say goes, and this match isn't starting until your stooges leave ringside."

AJ's head cocked to the side as her expression turned hard. She was getting that crazy look in her eye. "Oh really? And what about _your_ stooge?"

"Uh, what?" Brad asked. "I'm not a stooge, crazy lady, I'm the Assistant—"

"Look," Hannah cut him off, "either Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum can leave on their own, or I can have them removed…"

Her words died ominously in the air. There was a pause; and then The Shield's theme music started up.

Everyone in the arena, AJ, Big E. and Dolph included, had their heads on a swivel as they searched for where Ambrose, Rollins and Reigns would emerge. The trio appeared in the stands, as always, Ambrose and Rollins stalking down one aisle and Reigns down another as the fans both booed and cheering, daring to reach out and touch them as they passed. It wasn't long before they hopped the barrier and surrounded the ring. Their eyes were wild and dark, like hungry animals. AJ cowered behind Dolph and Big E. as they climbed up onto the apron—but then someone interrupted.

"Excuse me!"

Hannah expelled a groan and glared murderously at Brad. Immediately he shrugged and shook his head. He had nothing to do with this.

"EXCUSE ME!"

"We heard you the first time, Vickie!" Hannah snapped. She was _not_ in the mood for this.

Everyone watched as the Managing Supervisor's face twisted in dissatisfaction on the TitanTron. If there was anything Vickie Guerrero didn't like it was being undermined. "Well I'm glad you're paying attention, Hannah, because I have news for you. You may be _a_ McMahon, but you're not _the_ McMahon; and you're certainly not the one in charge. I just received a message from Vince McMahon himself that The Shield is _banned_ from ringside, and if they interfere _at all_ in your match you will be automatically disqualified and Brad Maddox will lose his position as Assistant to the Managing Supervisor!"

"No!" Brad immediately spouted. "No, no, no! Get them out of here, Hannah! You, get out of here!"

Dean sent Brad a glare so intense that, for a second, it actually worried Hannah. All of a sudden she was transported back to the scene in the locker room. She had to remember to stay in character.

Vince may be the one in charge, but he had no authority in this matter—The Shield took their marching orders from Hannah. Her eyes met with Seth's. She gave a jerk of her head. They had to go.

Slowly but surely Rollins, Reigns and Ambrose retreated. AJ started to laugh. It infuriated Hannah.

"What about them?!" she yelled into the mike as she pointed at Dolph and Big E. still standing in the ring. "It's not fair if The Shield has to leave but they get to stay!"

Vickie gave a shrug. "I don't know what to tell you, Hannah. Maybe Vince thought it was about time you got a taste of your own medicine?" she said, and she started cackling that awful, witchy laugh of hers. She might as well have disappeared in a puff of green smoke.

Hannah was like a geyser ready to erupt. "Ugh!" she proclaimed and punched Brad hard on the arm.

"Ow! What was that for?"

She scowled at him so fiercely that he knew better than to do anything but back off.

Dolph went back to his taunting, but Hannah absolutely refused to get in the ring until he and Big E. had gotten out. Brad, perhaps in a bid to get back in his fiancée's good graces, ordered them out—although he did cower behind Hannah when Big E. pretended to lunge at him. Hannah wasn't impressed.

Finally she ascended the steel steps; but she paused on the apron. "Keep her in the corner!" she ordered the referee as she pointed adamantly at AJ. "She'll come at me like a spider monkey!"

The ref instructed for AJ to stay in her corner. She held up her hands in compliance. Gingerly Hannah ducked through the ropes into the ring. The bell sounded, and the match was officially underway.

Slowly, deliberately AJ and Hannah met in the middle of the ring. They sized each other up. Hannah stared down her nose at the much shorter Diva, but the difference in height certainly didn't scare AJ into keeping her mouth shut.

"What're you gonna do, Hannah? Huh? Slap me? But that's your sister's specialty, isn't it? I bet you wouldn't even leave a mark."

Hannah didn't make make a move, didn't say a word. But then a dangerous smirk crept its way onto her lips, and all of a sudden she palmed AJ's face and pushed her back—_hard_.

AJ landed unceremoniously on her backside. She turned her eyes up at Hannah and it was like the calm before the storm. She attacked.

She knocked Hannah to the mat with a spear and began shrieking and smacking her. She grabbed her by the hair and banged her head against the canvas. The ref had to physically pry her away to get her to stop. She had snapped already.

On hands and knees Hannah dragged herself to a corner of the ring. She was completely dazed from the assault; it took her a few seconds to orient herself. She found the turnbuckles and pulled herself to her feet—and when she turned she found AJ charging her. She dodged out of the way just in time, and to everyone's complete surprise she hooked AJ's leg as she dropped the mat and rolled her up in a perfectly executed schoolgirl pin.

The canvas vibrated as the ref counted. 1, 2—but AJ kicked out. She scrambled away as quickly as she could, a look of sheer shock on her face. Hannah grinned in satisfaction. This wasn't going to be some two-minute Divas debacle. This was going to be a _fight_.

They both got to their feet and immediately locked up. Hannah was quick to put AJ in a headlock but AJ was quick to push her off—and in another unexpected move, Hannah rebounded off the ropes and hit her with a clothesline that would have made Roman Reigns proud.

The fans gasped at the impact; Dolph's mouth was agape in disbelief. It was Hannah's turn to mock him.

"Holy crap I can actually _wrestle!_"

"Oh wow, my grandma could throw a clothesline!" he returned. She ignored him.

She grabbed a fistful of AJ's hair and pulled her to her feet—but AJ threw a forearm into her stomach. Hannah let go and doubled over; AJ kicked her in the shin. She grabbed her arm and made to whip her toward the ropes but, yet again, Hannah had a surprise for her: she reversed the move and pulled AJ's gut right into her knee. She grabbed her hair again and threw her facedown to the mat with a sitout facebuster and went for her second cover of the match—but right when she hooked AJ's leg Dolph grabbed Hannah by the ankle and pulled her out of the ring. She was sent tumbling to the floor below.

The referee pointed a stern finger at him. "Stay out of the match, Dolph!"

The Show Off feigned innocence as he put up his hands—but all of a sudden Brad spun him around and punched him in the mouth.

The arena erupted at the unexpected action. Dolph was sent stumbling to the ground in shock, but in solving one problem Brad had unwittingly created a much bigger one. One by the name of Big E. Langston.

"Whoa, whoa," he backed away as Big E. advanced on him. "Easy big guy."

The mammoth said nothing. He wore a look like he intended to rip Brad's head off—but not if Hannah had anything to say about it. _She_ was the only one who could beat up her fiancé and get away with it.

Thinking quickly she grabbed Dolph's discarded Money in the Bank briefcase and hit Big E. square between the shoulder blades. It wasn't until after when she realized what a stupid decision that was.

Big E. rounded on her. Her eyes widened in terror and she took off in the opposite direction—and ran right into a dropkick from AJ.

She hit the floor with a smack; the bump legitimately knocked the wind out of her. She sputtered and gasped in front of the announcer's table and was given absolutely no time to recover before AJ forced her up and rolled her back into the ring. She went for the pin, but Hannah had just enough wherewithal to put her foot on the rope. This match wasn't over quite yet.

AJ twitched. She ran her hands through her hair and pulled at the ends. She was getting that crazy look in her eye. She just couldn't understand why she hadn't _won_ yet.

She dragged Hannah by her hair further into the ring and went for another cover; but she kicked out. Again, AJ grabbed her hair and pulled her up, but then Hannah turned the tables. She grabbed the back of AJ's legs and pulled her feet out from underneath her. Her back hit the canvas and Hannah started slamming her head against the mat. It was about time the crazy bitch got a taste of her own medicine.

The referee had a much more difficult time pulling Hannah away than he had AJ—and as soon as he pried them apart she was on her again.

"Do your job, ref!" Dolph berated from the apron.

She smacked and clawed and scratched and the ref was in real danger of getting hit himself but finally he managed to force her away for good. Hannah pushed her hair out of her face and saw that AJ had retreated to the turnbuckle. She waited until she pulled herself to her feet, and then she charged.

But AJ hit her with a back elbow.

She stumbled back into the center of the ring, coughing from the blow to her chest. But she knew better than to keep her back turned on her opponent. Sure enough, as soon as she turned she found AJ running at her. As quickly as she could Hannah spun on her left leg and struck AJ right in the stomach with a back kick. AJ was halted in her tracks, doubled over. Now was Hannah's chance.

She forced AJ into a front facelock. Swiftly she swung her outside leg behind her, and the next thing anyone knew she had planted AJ with a devastatingly executed DDT.

The crowd was electric as she rolled her over and went for the pin. Hannah waited for the three count.

And waited.

And waited.

But it never came. Dolph was up on the ring apron and the referee was preoccupied with yelling at him to get down.

That was _it_. Hannah had absolutely had it with Ziggles. She threw AJ's leg down in anger and got up to confront her bleached blond beau.

She got right in his face. "What do you think you're doing?"

"What do you think _you're_ doing?" he obnoxiously returned.

"Kicking your girlfriend's ass, that's what!"

Dolph almost laughed. "Oh gimme a break, sweetheart! AJ could beat you with one arm tied behind her back _and_ blindfolded!"

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, _really_."

"Hannah, watch out!"

Brad's warning alerted her just in time. She dodged out of the way—and AJ's forearm connected right with Dolph's face.

Dolph fell to the floor in a heap. AJ stared on in horror at the mistake she had made. Hannah immediately rolled her up in another schoolgirl pin.

_1-2-3_. The crowd exploded; the bell rung. Hannah McMahon had won.

She scrambled to get out of the ring—Big E. was already halfway through the ropes—and stumbled to the floor at the bottom of the ramp. Brad ran over with a giant grin on his face.

"Holy crap you won!"

"I won!" she proclaimed as he helped her up. It was if she had only just realized it. "I WON!"

She started laughing, half out of sheer shock and half out of a desire to do everything she could to rub her victory in AJ's face. "I beat you!" she mocked as she pointed back to where AJ sat dejected and angry in the middle of the ring; and it was just enough to push her over the edge. She erupted in a violent temper tantrum, screaming and smacking the mat with balled up fists. Dolph, who had pulled himself from the floor, tried to calm his girlfriend down but it was absolutely no use. She was _crazy_.

"Well I think we all know who the _real_ power couple around here is," Brad stated with a satisfied smirk. Hannah grinned and pulled him into a kiss. She supposed he deserved it—he had actually been useful for once, after all.

The victorious duo made their way back up the ramp and behind the curtain. Much to her surprise, Hannah was met with a round of applause. She blushed underneath everyone's congratulations. It hadn't been that good, really.

But someone wasn't so thrilled with the performance.

"_Hannah Grace._"

Just like that Hannah's mood went from joyous to annoyed. _Stephanie_.

"Yes, _mother?_" she snipped. Really, why in the world had she whipped out her middle name like she was some petulant child?

"Where do you get off changing the finish?" she charged as she came to a stop in front of her. She was _not_ happy. Hannah could tell by the tiny vein pulsating in her forehead. "I told you to win by DQ and I _meant_ it."

"Oh please," Hannah spat. "Like I ruined anything by changing the finish. I didn't want to win by DQ and you know what? AJ didn't want to _lose_ by DQ, either. So we changed it. You'll live."

Really, how big of a deal could it possibly be? But Stephanie hadn't gotten her way, and that had always been more than enough cause to start World War III.

"You can't just go around changing whatever you want, Hannah. It doesn't matter that you're my sister—you can't undermine my authority like that."

Hannah stared back in defiance at her older sister. Stephanie McMahon Levesque was the queen of the power trip, always had been and always would be. But Hannah herself had always had a bit of a problem with _authority_.

"Well, Steph, if you're so perturbed with my 'undermining' you why don't you just go complain to dad about it? It's what you've always done in the past."

Brad choked back a laugh. Stephanie's lips thinned into a hard, agitated line; the vein in her temple throbbed even harder. Hannah grinned. When her sister was involved there was nothing she enjoyed better than getting the last word.

"Come on, Brad," she said with her head held high. "Let's go celebrate our victory."

She grabbed his hand and pulled him behind her down the hallway. As far as she was concerned the match couldn't have gone better—and she couldn't care less what Stephanie thought.

* * *

By the end of the night word had reached every open ear. Everyone knew what Jon had done. Everyone was whispering about it.

Eyes followed Hannah as she walked through the underbelly of the arena. She needed to go home. She needed to take a hot shower in her own house and sleep in her own bed for the first time in more than a week. She needed to relax. She needed to clear her head. She needed to step back from the situation and digest what she had witnessed in that locker room without any input from anyone else. She needed to figure things out herself.

But she hadn't left quickly enough.

"Hannah, wait."

She wilted when she heard him say her name. Her eyes turned to the sky. Hannah didn't know if she had the strength to talk to Phil right now.

His footsteps slowed as he neared. Soon enough he was standing in front of her, the hood of his favorite black hoodie pulled up over his head and his gear bag slung over his shoulder. Hannah hadn't spoken a word to him in two weeks, not since he had berated her for kissing Brad. She could only imagine what he would have to say about Jon.

"You did good out there tonight," he said. It was a genuine compliment. "Who'd you train with?"

"Chris and Sara. And Brad," she answered, but she knew he was only making pleasantries. He hadn't chased her down to talk about her match. "What do you want, Phil? Come to chastise me again?"

She stared resolutely up into his eyes. Now that she noticed they looked even wearier than usual.

"Look, I'll admit I may have overreacted two weeks ago," he started. "Afterward I felt like a dick for saying those things in the way that I did, but I don't regret saying them. I meant every word of it, and furthermore you know I've never claimed not to be a dick. But I only said those things because I care about you, Hannah. If I didn't I would have just let it go, but I couldn't. And I can't let this go now, either."

There was an inexplicable pause. Hannah shifted her eyes impatiently. "Well, what is it?"

Phil expelled a heavy breath. "What's going on with you and Ambrose?"

Of course. _Of course_ that's what it was. "That's really not any of your business."

"You're right, it's not," he agreed. "But are you sure you know what you're getting yourself into getting involved with him?"

Again, the grisly scene from the locker room replayed in Hannah's mind. No, quite honestly, she wasn't sure what she was getting herself into. She hadn't been sure _before_ tonight and now she was even less sure. It wasn't even necessary for her to vocalize her answer—her uncertainty was written all over her face.

"He's a loose cannon, Hannah," Phil went on. "What he did tonight… I promise you he's capable of worse. He wouldn't bat an eye before putting someone in the hospital."

"Do you know _why_ he did what he did tonight?" she suddenly shot back. "Do you? He did it because Corey Graves tried to force himself on me in Tampa. Tell me you wouldn't have done the exact same thing if something like that had happened to Amy."

"That's not the point!" he returned. "Of _course_ I would have kicked Corey's ass! The little shit deserved it! But Ambrose is cold, Hannah. He doesn't care about other people; he's practically incapable of it. Ask Daniel, ask Colby, hell ask Chris. They'll all tell you the same thing. He's bad news. I don't want to see you get hurt."

Hannah heard the words Phil was telling her. She even took note of them. But his warning about Jon wasn't her primary concern. She was more interested as to why he even _cared_ to warn her at all.

"I'm well aware of Jon's reputation, Phil. I was aware of it before he signed with WWE and I'll make my own decision about how _cold_ he is. But what I want to know is why you even care if I am getting _involved_ with him. Why do you care if I get hurt? Why do you care if I want to make out with Brad Maddox or whoever the hell I want backstage? Can you tell me that? Because something tells me that's what the _real_ issue is here."

Silence fell between them. Phil's gaze hardened as he stared down at her, his lips thinned into a firm line. There was something that he wasn't being forthright about, she could read it in his eyes. There was something he wasn't admitting.

"Hey."

Brad's timing couldn't have been worse.

"You ready to go?" he asked Hannah; he was giving her a ride to the airport. Ironically enough, he was the only one she _wanted_ to give her a ride to the airport that night.

"Yeah," she answered with a nod, but her eyes never left Phil's. This conversation was far from over. "I'll see you on Monday," she said, and her meaning was crystal clear: _we'll talk about this then._

"Yeah," Phil consented, and with a nod at Brad he turned and left.

"Are you okay?" Brad asked once they were out of earshot. "What was that about?"

"I'll be fine," Hannah returned.

But, deep down, she didn't know if she would be.


	13. Monsters and Demons

_I know, I know - it's been an ETERNITY since I last updated. Well, good thing I have a juicy chapter for you :)_

_Long story short, life got in the way and I wasn't able to put in the time to write. However, I did learn how to use Photoshop... and I've made a banner for Turn On the Lights! The link is on my profile page, so you can check it out after you r&r :)_

_Oh, also I tweaked the ending to the last chapter quite a bit because it was better for the forward movement of the plot, so if you feel like it you can go read the new convo between Hannah and Punk._

_As always, thank you to everyone who has shown their support for this story, whether it be through reviews, follows or favorites. I hope this chapter is well worth the wait, and please let me know what you think!_

**Chapter Thirteen**

_Wednesday, February 27, 2013  
The Hub  
Tampa, Florida_

Jon took a long drag from the cigarette in between his lips. His drink was two thirds gone and he needed another. He didn't plan on leaving any time soon.

There wasn't much outside the squared circle he enjoyed better than a good dive bar—the kind of place where the dregs of society congregated. Dive bars were dirty, gritty, unpolished; just like him. But this place was even seedier than the seediest places he had been. It looked like it hadn't been renovated since the 1940s. The floor was filthy; the chair cushions were ripped and worn; the air was dense and stale and he was pretty sure that was a homeless bum sitting at the bar. But the bartenders poured their drinks with a heavy hand, and that was all that mattered to anyone. Jon included.

He smirked to himself as he stamped out the finished cigarette butt. Hannah wouldn't be caught dead here, and certainly not with him.

She thought he was a monster.

He had seen it in her eyes. She was terrified of him, of what she had seen him do to Corey Graves. Why had she had to follow him into the locker room? He wished she hadn't. He wished she hadn't seen what he had done. But she had, and now she thought he was a monster.

But that bastard had deserved it.

There was _never_ an excuse to put your hands on a woman. No matter how angry he became, no matter how destructive he could get Jon would never_ ever_ put his hands on a woman. He had seen it too much growing up in the projects of Cincinnati's eastside. He had seen it happen to his own mother. It made him sick. Just the thought of a piece of filth like Corey Graves laying a finger on Hannah made his blood boil, and when he had seen those bruises on her arm he had seen red. He hadn't been able to control his anger. It happened sometimes.

But Punk probably had Hannah thinking he was like that _all_ the time.

Jon had seen him stop her after the show, had watched from across the parking lot as they had talked. It wasn't hard to guess the things he had said to her—the same things everyone said about him.

He's volatile. He's cold. He's crazy. He's a _sociopath_.

Oh, Jon was well aware of the things people whispered about him backstage; and, quite frankly, he didn't give one flying fuck. In fact, he kind of liked it. He liked being left alone. He liked being mysterious. He liked having a reputation that preceded him, even if it was only partly true. It complemented his gimmick quite nicely.

But as much as Jon didn't care what anyone else said or thought about him, what he didn't want was for Hannah to be one of the ones who bought into it all. He didn't want her to actually believe he was crazy. He didn't want her to actually believe he had no self-restraint.

If she _did_ actually believe it all, though—well, he certainly wasn't going to try to change her mind.

"You got a light?"

Jon looked up from his glass. The question had come from a tall blonde in a tight red tank top and a pair of ripped jeans. He had noticed her earlier; it was rather hard not to what with the looks she had been sending him all night, biting her lip and making bedroom eyes. He scanned her over. She had a shapely little body.

He dug into his pocket and produced his lighter. He knew for a fact she had one of her own. He had watched her light up not twenty minutes ago. This was just an excuse to talk to him.

She accepted the lighter with long, slender fingers and lit her cigarette. She took a draw before handing it back to him. The way she wrapped her lips around the end was all too suggestive.

"Thanks," she said. She eyed him for a second. Jon could tell she recognized him. "Aren't you a wrestler?"

He smirked. Oh, the perks of his job were never-ending. "That I am."

She took another puff. "I thought so. My boyfriend watches that stuff."

"Does he?" he slyly returned. "And where's he at now?"

She blew the smoke up into the air, and when her eyes met his they smoldered like the end of her cigarette. "Not here."

Jon's grin turned devilish. He had never turned down a good skank, and he wasn't about to start.

"What're you drinking?"

* * *

_Thursday, February 28, 2013  
Hannah McMahon's Apartment  
Stamford, Connecticut_

Hannah couldn't remember the last time she had taken a hot bubble bath; it was a luxury she had nearly forgotten. But that night she had rediscovered it in all its glory and she was taking full advantage. Hopefully the lavender-scented bubbles would help her to forget about everything, if only for half an hour.

It had been three days since she had witnessed Jon attempt to rearrange Corey's face. Three days, and still she didn't know what to make of it. It had all happened so quickly; he had exploded like gas exposed to an open flame. It had been frightening. It had been eye opening—and not in a good way.

When Hannah had told Phil she was well aware of Jon's reputation it had been the truth. But she had associated that reputation with Dean Ambrose, _not_ Jon Good. She wasn't used to seeing _Jon_ behave that way. _Dean_ was the erratic one; _Dean_ was the one who beat people to a bloody pulp, not Jon. Jon was mysterious and misunderstood and rough around the edges but he wasn't violent, he wasn't _dangerous_. Not like that. Not the man she knew.

Who the hell was Hannah kidding? She _didn't_ know Jon Good. Perhaps he _was_ like that. Perhaps the man was every bit as violent and volatile as the wrestler. Perhaps his temper couldn't be controlled. Perhaps he _was_ dangerous.

Perhaps everyone was right about him, after all. Phil included.

Phil. That situation was an issue in and of itself. There had been words left unsaid between them there in the parking lot; words, Hannah feared, that would affect a lot more than just the two of them.

"SHIT!"

She nearly jumped out of her skin when her cell phone rang out from atop the toilet. She hadn't even realized she had brought the thing into the bathroom with her. It was a bad habit she had, taking her phone with her absolutely everywhere she went; and when she saw who was calling she sincerely wished she had left the damn thing elsewhere.

"Yes, dear sister?" she answered with a sigh. Hopefully this conversation would be short.

"Well hello to you, too," Stephanie returned. "Are you coming to dinner tonight?"

Hannah felt a headache coming on. She had forgotten all about the family dinner that night.

"You forgot didn't you?"

"Yeah," she admitted. Honestly, she had probably forgotten because she flat out didn't want to go. It was just another thing she didn't have the energy to deal with at the moment.

"Well you're coming, aren't you?" Stephanie pried. "You have to."

"Yes, Stephanie, I'm aware I don't have a choice," she snipped. They were still testy with each other over the creative license Hannah had used in her match against AJ. Getting together with the whole family tonight was going to be an absolute joy.

"Dinner's at five. Don't be late," Stephanie ordered. "And pick up something for dessert. I want cheesecake."

That was all she said before she hung up. Hannah let out a heavy sigh—so much for enjoying her bubble bath.

* * *

_Stephanie McMahon Levesque's House  
Greenwich, Connecticut_

For what had to be the hundredth time that night Hannah pressed the home button on her iPhone, illuminating the screen. It was only 7:17, and they had yet to cut into the cheesecake Stephanie had insisted she bring. She felt like she was dying a slow death.

"Hannah, you've been checking your phone every ten minutes since you got here," her mother noted. Linda McMahon _hated_ when people used their phones at the dinner table. As she had always said, work should never interrupt family—even if you do work with your family. "I swear, you've gotten worse about that than all of us."

"Yeah, Hannah," Paul piped up. "Hoping to hear from a certain someone?"

Hannah rolled her eyes; here we go. The point of the night when conversation turned to her love life had finally been reached. "And who would that be, Paul?"

He gave a lopsided shrug. "I just couldn't help but notice that you and Brad seemed pretty chummy on Monday. Something change while you were down in Tampa?"

"Yeah, I thought you hated him," Stephanie chimed.

"I didn't _hate_ him," Hannah argued. "He just went out of his way to help me in Tampa."

That was her story and she was sticking to it. It wasn't a lie—it just wasn't the whole truth. And they would never hear the whole truth. Ever.

"Are you and Brad getting married?"

Everyone chuckled when they heard that. It had come from Paul and Stephanie's oldest, Aurora. Hannah pursed her lips at her wide-eyed niece. The kid was lucky she was cute.

But, of course, Paul jumped in before Hannah could answer for herself. "Yes, they are! And they're going to live happily ever after just like mom and dad."

"You're lying to your six-year-old," Hannah commented. "Real good parenting, Paul."

Stephanie's eyes widened murderously at her sister but Hannah paid it absolutely no mind. She had been done with this dinner 30 minutes ago.

But that was when Vince decided to join the conversation.

"Speaking of Monday, why did you change the finish to your match, Hannah?"

The room fell silent. Hannah should have seen this coming. _Of course_ Stephanie had gone and complained to daddy about the match, just like she had told her to, and _of course_ he was taking her side. It had never mattered that Hannah was the youngest—Stephanie had always been Vince's little princess.

Hannah's answer was blunt. "Because I didn't want to lose by DQ. It's pretty simple, really."

"Lots of people don't like the way their matches are booked," Vince returned. "But that doesn't give them the liberty to change things."

His tone was calm. Ominously calm. It made Hannah nervous. Was she seriously in trouble for changing the ending to a meaningless match? But then she saw the haughty little smirk on Stephanie's lips and all her nervousness turned to anger.

"What difference does it make?" she charged. "The finish AJ and I came up with went over fine. Were you planning on continuing the story line or something? Because if that was the case Stephanie should have told me."

"That's not the point," Stephanie started, but Vince spoke over her.

"No, as far as I know there weren't any plans to continue the story line, but a DQ win would have kept that option on the table. There's always a reason for the decisions Creative makes."

Hannah could have laughed out loud. It sure as hell didn't seem like there was always a reason for the decisions Creative made. Sometimes it seemed like they spun the Raw roulette wheel and went with whatever it landed on, no matter how ridiculous or illogical it was.

"But despite your… disobedience, which I expect to never happen again," he went on, "I was impressed with the match."

Stephanie's jaw slacked. Hannah grinned. _Take that, bitch._

"Who'd you work with down in Tampa?" Vince asked. "Besides Brad."

"Sara Del Ray and Kassius Ohno."

He nodded. His steely eyes were pensive. Hannah could practically see the gears working behind them. When it came to Vincent Kennedy McMahon that was rarely a good thing.

"Did you use Ambrose's DDT on purpose?"

_Shit._

Hannah was like a deer in the headlights. Why in the world was he asking that? There wasn't a shadow of a doubt in her mind that he knew about what Jon had done to Corey—absolutely everything, no matter how trivial, eventually found its way to the Chairman. But even so, Vince never bothered with the backstage tussles; he let the talent deal with those on their own. He was their boss, not their father.

But he _was_ Hannah's father, and that was more than enough reason for him to _bother _with this particular instance.

"No," she answered. "That was just how they taught me to do the DDT."

Again, Vince nodded. He was concocting something in that brain of his and Hannah didn't like it. After all, his last bright idea had left her charge of The Shield.

"Why?" she dared to ask, but Vince nonchalantly brushed it off.

"No particular reason. It just gave me an idea."

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What sort of idea?"

"Don't you worry about it, Hannah. That's _my_ job."

His lips curled into a cunning grin. All of a sudden Hannah wasn't feeling so good.

"Well," Vince clapped his hands together. "Where's that cheesecake?"

* * *

_Friday, March 1, 2013  
Raw Live Event  
Ricoh Coliseum – Toronto, Ontario, Canada_

When WWE brass had first told Phil he would be getting his own bus he hadn't been too keen on the idea. He had never wanted to be one of _those_ guys. He drove himself. He was a road warrior, piling into a rental car with his fellow workers and trading off the steering wheel for as long as it took to get where they were going. He didn't need a _bus_.

It hadn't taken long for him to change his tune.

Some nights the bus was a lifesaver; to be able to flop into his bed in the back and sleep until the next city was an unbelievable luxury he had never thought he would have. Other nights the bus was a sanctuary away from the chaos that was backstage, particularly when he wanted to be left alone, when he needed to think.

Tonight was one of those nights.

When Phil had heard Hannah would be making the jump from talent scout to on-screen talent—and as the power behind The Shield, no less—he had had his reservations. It had been over a year and a half since they had interacted, and honestly he had no clue how it would be working with her.

But of all the scenarios he had imagined absolutely none of them had been like _this_.

_It's hardly ever anyone's _intention_ to hurt someone, Phil. But that doesn't make it hurt any less._

Those words had been echoing in his mind since the night she had said them. And ever since that night Phil hadn't been able to stop thinking about what he had done.

At the start of 2011 Hannah and Phil hadn't been much more than acquaintances. She spent her time out on the road searching for the next Superstar; he spent his time out on the road performing every night. It wasn't until early that summer, when word got out how unhappy he was with WWE that they really got to know each other—and their worlds had collided in a way that he never would have expected.

When Hannah had learned that Phil didn't intend to renew his contract she put absolutely everything else on hold; keeping him in the company became her number one priority. So they had met, and they had talked, and during those many hours of discussion one thing had stood out above all the rest: they disliked all the same things about WWE.

So Hannah had devised a plan. "How would you feel if you were allowed to publicly air your grievances?" she had asked him.

"It would be like defusing a bomb," he had answered. "Because I'm damn near ready to explode."

That was all the word she had needed. Hannah worked her magic, and when Phil had sat cross-legged under the TitanTron at the Thomas & Mack Center in Las Vegas on June 27, 2011 and delivered his game-changing promo indicting the McMahons and pointing out everything wrong with WWE it had been thanks to her. That had happened because of her. And it was because of her, in part, that he had renewed his contract and was still with WWE today.

She had helped to save his career when she had absolutely no obligation to at all, and he had returned the favor by being a complete and total douchebag.

During the time when he was considering leaving WWE, Phil had just ended a serious relationship—one with three-time Women's and one-time Divas Champion, Beth Phoenix. Things had just turned sour between them. She had become a person he didn't like, fake and insincere, and all his respect and admiration for her had gone down the toilet. Due to that, and the circumstances surrounding his contract, he hadn't been looking to get involved with anyone anytime soon.

But then Hannah had come along.

They had just clicked. She was intelligent and witty and so passionate about the things that mattered to her. She was fun and gorgeous and she _understood_; and soon enough he had found himself talking to her just because he wanted to. Soon enough they had moved from acquaintances to friends, and from friends to something more.

And then, for the very first time in his life, Phil had chickened out.

He couldn't tell you why. Maybe he just hadn't been ready for another relationship; maybe he had been more hurt by what Beth had done than he had realized. Hell, maybe it had even been because Hannah's last name was _McMahon_. Whatever the reason, he had told her he just didn't want to be involved at the moment.

So imagine her surprise when, not two weeks later, she found out he had gotten back together with another ex-girlfriend. Amy. Hannah had every reason in the world to despise him.

Ever since that summer Phil had wished he could go back in time and fix it. He wished he had handled it differently. He had thoughtlessly hurt someone he both cared for and respected and he wanted nothing more than to _fix_ it; and so far he hadn't been able to.

But in recent weeks Phil had begun wrestling with something other than just his guilt. Watching Hannah out in the ring had re-awoken everything that had drawn him to her in the first place. Seeing her smiling and laughing backstage had made him realize he missed spending time with her.

And seeing her with Dean Ambrose had made him realize that maybe he wished he had never walked away from her in the first place.

Phil shook himself from his thoughts and checked the time—6:09. Little more than 45 minutes until the show would get underway. He should probably head back inside.

He grabbed his things and just as he was about to leave the bus his phone rang. He glanced down at the caller ID and paused. It was Amy.

Phil pushed the phone into his pocket and opened the door to the crisp Toronto air. Whatever Amy had to say, it would have to wait. He couldn't talk to her right now.


	14. What Happens in the Dark

_Before you all kill me, I know this update has come way later than promised, and for that I profusely apologize and hope you all can forgive me. But I have to say this: You all are amazing. During this time that I've neglected you without updates there have been people following and favoriting this story nearly every single day, and I am truly grateful and amazed. Thank you so much for your constant support - it means more than I can say!_

_So, without further ado, here's the next chapter! Please read and review as always, it would make me so very happy :) _

**Chapter Fourteen**

_Monday, March 4, 2013  
Monday Night Raw  
First Niagara Center – Buffalo, New York_

_Meeting. Vince's office. Now._

When Hannah saw Paul's text, she let out a groan so loud that nearly everyone in catering turned to look. What could possibly be the problem now? Between preparing for that night's episode of "Old School" Raw, salvaging a contract deal that John Laurinaitis had nearly ruined, and getting camera-ready herself, she hadn't even had the time to eat a proper meal that day—and now she'd have to wait even longer.

"What's wrong?"

Hannah held up her phone for Brad to see. "I've been summoned," she explained.

Just then, Brad's cell buzzed. There was a text for him, as well. "I'm needed for a meeting with Vince?"

"That's makes two of us," Hannah sighed. "Let's go."

Reluctantly she returned her clean paper plate and trudged out of catering, her stomach growling angrily at her. She had no idea what the reason for this meeting was, but if it concerned her and Brad there was one thing certain to be on the agenda: Their "wedding."

However, when they finally arrived at Vince's office, it became abundantly clear that Hannah and Brad's looming nuptials were far from the only reason for this conference.

Jon's eyes burned into Hannah from across the room. Neither Colby nor Roman was there—it was just him, sitting there in an overstuffed chair, all cool with one ankle crossed over his knee. His lips curled up in a smirk. Hannah's throat went dry.

Reflexively, she grabbed ahold of Brad's shirtsleeve and tugged him into the room and down onto the couch opposite her father, sister and brother-in-law. "Okay, I'm here," she said. "Can we make this quick? Because I haven't eaten all day."

Vince, Stephanie and Paul all gave her peculiar looks, but thankfully her sister didn't delay to get right to the point. "Well, it needs to be quick anyway. There's been a last minute change to tonight's script. Dolph and AJ are going to challenge you and Brad to an inter-gender tag team match next week."

If Stephanie had been looking to get some sort of reaction out of her, she was sorely disappointed. Hannah offered absolutely no reaction at all. Perhaps she was too tired to bother to react, or maybe she was so annoyed with her family's constant curveballs that she had been pushed to the point of apathy. Either way, all she did was blink and ask, "Why?"

"Well," Stephanie explained, "because if Dolph and AJ win, Brad loses his job as Assistant to the Managing Supervisor of Raw. However, if you and Brad win, _you_ will become the official General Manager."

Hannah bit down on her jaw. She was irritable, she was starving, and she didn't need to ask to know that she and Brad would be going over next week.

She was going to be the General Manager of Raw.

"Again: _Why?_"

"Because I'm sick of having a 'Managing Supervisor,'" Vince interjected. "I want a GM, and right now you're the best person for the job."

"But what about Vickie?" Hanna returned. "What about Brad? Will he become _my_ assistant?"

"Yeah, what about Brad?" Brad echoed. Everyone in the room shot him a sideways glance. He sunk back into the couch, defeated.

"Vickie's old news," Vince went on. "And yes, Brad will become your assistant. That's actually the second matter we need to discuss."

Hannah tensed in her seat when she heard that. This was it, she could feel it hanging in the air: The wedding.

Stephanie picked up right where their father left off. "Once Brad becomes your assistant, well, you're going to start treating him like shit, more or less."

"Well, that's nothing new," Brad lightly joked. Paul chuckled to himself, but Stephanie ignored them both.

"…Which will give him incentive to turn on you. So, behind your back, Brad will agree on a deal with Vince to leave you at the altar in exchange for being named the General Manager of Raw."

"Yes!" Brad exclaimed happily to himself. Hannah's reaction, on the other hand, was a bit different: She laughed.

"You're kidding, right? You pulled that same exact trick less than a year ago with Daniel Bryan and A.J., and you're doing it _again?_ I know you all are fond of recycling storylines, but you usually wait a little longer than _that_."

"I wasn't finished," Stephanie growled. Hannah bit her tongue and waved for her to please continue.

"Brad will try to leave you at the altar, but _you_ have a secret of your own you need to confess. An affair—with Dean Ambrose."

Everything stopped. Hannah's entire body burned hot with anxiety, and the implications of Stephanie's revelation sunk in. She was going to leave Brad for Dean Ambrose. She was going to be in an on-screen relationship with him. Her eyes drifted to Jon. He was wearing a wicked, devious grin, smiling as if he had just been told he would be named WWE Champion. It sent Hannah's heart hammering even harder against her ribcage.

Stephanie continued. "Then, of course, Dean will attack Brad and ruin the wedding, you'll leave with Dean, and from there on out you'll essentially act as a manager to him."

"You're going to be Stephanie and Triple H 2.0," Paul added with a grin. It made Hannah sick to her stomach.

"Oh, and this is all happening right after WrestleMania," Stephanie said. "Eventually, Jon, you'll break away from The Shield, but that's months down the road."

"Fine by me," Jon replied. His gaze never left Hannah. It was making her more and more uncomfortable with each passing second.

"Hannah?"

Her father's voice pulled her back to the surface. "Oh yeah, sounds good," she forced.

"Good," he nodded. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna inform the production truck of the final plans. You two should make sure you have everything squared away, too," he said with a look at Paul and Stephanie. "Show starts in 45 minutes."

"Right," Stephanie agreed, and all of a sudden there was a flurry of movement as she, Paul and Vince all stood to leave. Hannah looked around at them, completely dumbfounded. Was that really it? Were they really going to drop that atomic bomb on her 45 minutes before the show and just _leave?_

"Wh—" she started to ask, but Stephanie interrupted her.

"Those are your scripts for tonight," she motioned to a collection of papers on the coffee table. "Good luck," she wished, and just like that they were gone. Hannah, Brad, Jon and the palpable tension were all that remained.

But Brad didn't plan on sticking around. "Come on," he said to Hannah as he placed a comforting hand on her back, "let's get something to eat and we can look over our lines."

Hannah was still in too much shock to do anything but nod. Brad grabbed their scripts as she pushed herself up from the couch; but when they made to leave Jon unexpectedly spoke up.

"I hope you're not so afraid of me by the time WrestleMania rolls around, Hannah. It'll make things a bit difficult if you are. Then again, I have always freaked you out a bit, haven't I?"

Hannah turned angry eyes on him. The stress of the day had already worn her far too thin, and his bullshit mind games were the absolute last thing she needed. "I'm not _afraid_ of you."

Jon rose from his seat. Slowly, like a wolf stalking its prey, he advanced on Hannah. "That's not what I asked you," he taunted.

"How about you back off?" Brad suddenly stepped in between them, blocking Hannah from Jon. He was deadly serious—it was the same exact tone he had used with Corey Graves at the nightclub in Tampa. He was protecting her.

Jon sized Brad up. He seemed more amused by the "threat" than anything. "How about you stay out of this? I'm sure Hannah can take care of herself."

"Oh, I'm sure she can," Brad returned. "But I don't appreciate the way you're talking to her."

Hannah gripped Brad's hand—Jon had that look in his eye, and she didn't know what he might do if he was pushed any further. It would be best if they left. But Brad wasn't budging.

"Brad," she urged, "let's go."

"You should listen to her," Jon warned. "She's seen what happens when I get angry."

Brad didn't miss a beat. "Oh yeah? That's funny, because she's also seen what happens when I know some asshole is messing with her."

That effectively silenced Jon, but his anger was bubbling dangerously just below the surface. Hannah squeezed Brad's hand harder. That time he listened.

"Have a nice night," he said, and with one last look he led Hannah out of the room.

If Hannah hadn't felt ill before, she certainly did now. What a wonderful way to start the evening.

* * *

Phil always liked watching along with the broadcast of Raw. As a seasoned veteran, he felt it was his duty to advise the younger talent to the best of his ability, and in order to give the best advice possible he needed to watch their matches. Often he would spend his downtime watching in his dressing room, especially if he knew there was a match between two guys he liked. Currently, Dolph Ziggler was taking on The Miz. Neither of them needed Phil's advice—Ziggler knew what he was doing better than most, and Miz wouldn't take advice even if Mr. Perfect gave it to him—but he was watching anyway because Ric Flair was ringside.

All of a sudden Ziggler hit Miz with a surprise rollup, but Miz kicked out at two. Ziggler, however, was quick to his feet. He ran at Miz, jumped into the air and tried to execute _something_—was it supposed to be a dropkick? Phil honestly had no clue—but Miz caught his leg mid-air. He was going for the figure-four leg lock.

"Well, that was better than he usually does it," Phil commented as he watched him apply the hold. There was nothing fluid about the way the Miz executed the figure-four; it was awkward and forced, but at least he hadn't completely botched it with the master standing right there.

It wasn't too long before Ziggler tapped. Flair climbed into the ring and started celebrating in a way that only the Nature Boy could, strutting around like a rooster and shouting his signature "Woo!" as the entire arena joined in. It was good seeing him back in WWE, if only for a night.

"I love Ric Flair," Amy commented as the show went to commercial.

"Well, I'm sure he loves you, too," Phil returned with a grin. It was the first time Amy had been at Raw in quite a while. Lately she had been focusing more and more on her radio and music career, something which Phil supported her in every step of the way, but she had made sure to clear her schedule for Old School night. It was always one of her favorite episodes of the year.

"How come you aren't out watching in the sound booth?" he asked her. Usually Amy liked to take in the action from the stands, but tonight she had opted to watch from his dressing room. It didn't matter to him in the slightest where she watched, he was just wondering if there was any real reason for the change; and, evidently, there was.

"I just thought it would be nice to spend the time with you," she said with a bit of a shrug. "I know you're busy, we both are; but, you've seemed a bit distant lately."

Immediately, Phil's thoughts went back to that past Friday. Amy had called and he had purposely ignored her—because he had been preoccupied with thoughts of Hannah. He had called her back later that night, of course, but still he had been wrestling with his resurfacing feelings for the youngest McMahon sibling. He certainly wasn't about to tell that to Amy, though. He needed to figure things out first before he made any decisions, and right now he felt like he was up shit creek without a paddle.

"Is there something on your mind?" Amy pushed.

Phil nodded. Actually, there was something on his mind that he needed to tell Amy, and it had nothing to do with Hannah. "I think I'm gonna take a break from all this after WrestleMania."

It was something Phil had been considering for a few days now. The past year had been a marquee year in his career. He had become the longest-reigning WWE Champion of the modern era; he had unseated John Cena as the top number in merchandise sales; and tonight, he would officially become the Undertaker's opponent for WrestleMania XXIX. He had reached the absolute pinnacle of WWE—and from there, there was nowhere to go but down. There was only so much more he could achieve here, and after WrestleMania he wanted to take some time to think about his future with the company. It honestly tore him up, but it was something he needed to do.

Amy's brow was furrowed with concern. She was familiar with this dilemma of his. "For how long?"

"I don't know. Not too long, probably just a month or so. I just need some time."

Just then, Raw returned from the commercial break. Ziggler was backstage with AJ and Big E Langston, complaining about his loss to The Miz—but the segment grabbed Phil's full attention when Hannah and Brad sauntered into frame.

"Aw look, Brad," Hannah started with a phony pout, "looks like AJ's little boyfriend lost too. It's okay, guys, keep your heads up. Maybe you'll get 'em next time."

"I was robbed last week!" AJ immediately flew off the handle, but Ziggler shushed her up.

"You really shouldn't be throwing stones, Hannah. If I remember correctly, your fiancé can't even win a match to save his job. And like AJ said, she was robbed. If she got a rematch Brad here would be unemployed."

"You want to put your money where your mouth is?" Brad returned. Hannah shot him a death glare—she did _not_ want to wrestle another match for him—but the damage was done. AJ already had a crazy little conspiratorial grin on her face.

"Actually, I think we will. What do you think, Ziggy?"

"I think you're on to something, babe. Next week in Indianapolis, you and Hannah against me and AJ. If we win, _both _of you are fired."

"You don't have the authority to make that match," Hannah argued in a panic, but Brad just had to open his big mouth again.

"No, he doesn't; but technically I do, _and _I can add this: If _we_ win, not only do I keep my job, but Hannah becomes the official General Manager of Raw."

The crowd, watching on the TitanTron from the arena, erupted in a mixture of jeers and cheers. Phil, meanwhile, couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"You've got yourself a deal," Ziggler agreed, and they shook on it. "Enjoy your last week," he taunted, and he, AJ and Big E went on their merry way—leaving Hannah ready to kill her fiancé.

"You're an idiot," she told him.

"Just trust me," he assured. "It'll all work out."

Hannah rolled her eyes and mumbled something under breath as the shot cut away to the ring and Michael Cole launched into an excited discussion of the newly created match. Phil was somewhat dumbfounded.

"You think Hannah and Brad will win?" Amy asked.

"Of course," Phil answered without hesitation. "She's a McMahon. And besides, she'll make a great GM."

"You think so?"

"Yeah. What, you don't?"

She shook her head. "I didn't say that. She just has a lot to live up to, because she's a McMahon."

"I think she's already done a thousand times better than Stephanie did when she first started."

"Well, you know me," Amy returned, "I like Stephanie."

Phil just nodded. He liked Hannah.

* * *

One of the greatest perks of being a McMahon was the private family jet. Hannah had boarded after the show had ended in Buffalo, and in absolutely no time at all she would be back in her own cozy bed in Stamford. Oh, how she couldn't wait to climb into her bed.

There was, however, one downside to the jet: Being stuck in a tiny pressurized cabin with Paul, Stephanie and her father for an hour with absolutely no escape.

She was staring out the window at the blackness of the sky, and she knew Stephanie was staring at her. She could tell she was thinking about asking her something, but Hannah hoped if she just kept looking out the window and continued to ignore her she would leave her alone—

"Hannah, why were you acting so weird in our meeting today?"

_Fuck._

"I was stressed. I'm still stressed," she answered, hoping that Stephanie would take the hint; but unfortunately her sister was a nosy and persistent little bitch.

"Because of Dean?"

Hannah tensed. She didn't move a muscle from looking out the window, but she knew Stephanie could feel her anxiety. It was impossible not to.

"I heard about what he did to Corey Graves, you must know that," she went on. "I also heard that he apparently acted in your honor. Why would he do a thing like that?"

Hannah bit down on her jaw. The way she had asked had made it sound like she couldn't possibly fathom why any man would ever stand up for her; but as much as it pissed her off, Hannah knew that wasn't what Stephanie was getting it. She had deduced _something_ about her relationship with Jon, and she wanted to get to the bottom of it.

If Stephanie thought she would get it out of her like that, though, she had another thing coming.

Hannah turned and looked her dead in the eye. "That's not any of your business," she said, and that was the end of that.

But deep down, Hannah feared it would only be a matter of time before she did get to the bottom of it.


End file.
